Dreams of Valhalla
by BFCIV
Summary: Okay people, made some changes. Chapters 1,3, and 4 have added content and a few location errors have been fixed. Also, don't miss out on Chapter 5 which was just added. So sit back and enjoy. And please, please, please leave some comments. I need them.
1. En Media Res

**En Media Res**

His skin was raw, his beard was thick and his body ached. Painkillers helped, but not all that much. There were just some pains that not even aspirin could fix. Alcohol maybe, but now was not the time for a few shots of whiskey. The best he could do now was try and ignore the pain and concentrate on the good things.

At least the recovery went as planned. In fact, it was that and more. No weapons were discharged and every participating soldier lived to see another day. If only Lieutenant Kevin Oneida could have said the same of his mission. His team had toiled for two months, fighting a lengthy campaign. Their efforts eventually culminated in victory. But that victory came with a heavy price.

Ten of his men were lost while five survived. But considering whom they were up against, such an outcome was nothing short of miraculous. Oneida should have counted his blessings, but instead, he cursed himself. There were things he could have done differently; more variables he should have considered. Unfortunately, he had not and as a result several men were dead.

Blame was not going to bring back his men and it certainly wasn't going to make him feel better. He would have to put the sorrows behind him and look to the future. It was a hard sell, but Oneida was a warrior. There would be more men to lead and more battles to fight. Dwelling on the past would only make the completion of such tasks unnecessarily difficult.

Oneida looked out the back of the Chinook, briefly regarding the sheets of rain blanketing the open sky. A single soldier sat on the edge of the open ramp, legs dangling over the edge. He sat manning a machine gun gazing down at the lush green forest rushing beneath him. Further back, several brave warriors waited out the flight back to Paraguay. Most passed the time sleeping while others smoked cigarettes. But the card sharks stood out the most managing a decent game of spades amidst the limited space.

Out of a desire to be prepared for the debriefing, Oneida pulled out a small book of notes. The pages were lined top to bottom with diagrams and barely legible handwriting. Never the matter, those intelligence officers would be happy to have information of any kind. Shrugging off the concern, he began to skim over the frayed pages, carefully noting important details.

"Nice book you got there, Lieutenant." Someone said.

Oneida glanced up to find a grease paint face staring at him, "Thanks, Major. But it sure as hell's seen better days."

"I can imagine." The Ranger replied. "So you mind telling me what you squids found?"

"A lot of cool shit." Oneida briefly glanced towards the cockpit. "Everything from Quad Tilt Rotor aircraft to mind controlled soldiers."

"Sounds like one of those bad sci-fi movies if you ask me." Taking a sip from a canteen.

"Yeah, that's what I said, until I saw these things for myself."

"Well, glad to hear that some of the stuff from the rumor mill is true."

"Rumor mill?" Oneida looked up.

"Yeah." The major lit a cigarette before handing one to Oneida. "Every one of the soldiers here have been speculating as to what our friends in Brazil have. Shit, I've heard everything from new guns to reverse engineered alien technology."

"Sorry to disappoint Major, but I don't think we'll be seeing little green men anytime soon." Oneida chuckled lighting his cigarette. "So aside from the rumors, what you grunts been up to recently?"

"Standard training procedures, day in and day out. Patrol drills, fast rope insertions, you name it. But due to limited information we have on the contractors, the equipment they have, their troop strength, their C and C breakdown; we've sort of been at a loss. Simply put, Lieutenant, I'm not so sure we're ready for these guys."

"Hate to be an optimist here, but you're not. No offense."

"None taken. But since you boys know a little more, enlighten me a bit."

"Only advice I can give you right now is to pray." Both men laughed. "However, if you wanna have a fighting chance I suggest you get a little more creative with your training and by creative I mean learning how to fight like guerillas." Oneida offered, "But other than that, some mixed blessings may be working in your favor."

"Whadaya mean?"

"Insurrection."

"Hasn't Brazil seen enough fratricide over the years?!"

"One would have thought so, but apparently that's what's going on with the contractors."

"How'd that happen?"

"A long story."

"I'll take the short version."

"Well, there were a couple of hardcore believers who didn't think Melencampe was being tough enough on the free world. To make a long story short, two sides ended up facing off against each other. Those who were loyal to Melencampe and those who were loyal to this nut named Turner Hall."

"Looks like we'll be exploiting that." The major grinned.

"I would. But don't think these guys will simply lay down their arms. Even though they're fighting one another, both sides are still a threat. Despite their differences, they share one similarity in their hatred for us."

"War's not over yet." The major muttered.

"Never is."

"How your men?"

"Alive, which is a good thing. This guy." Nodding to a man sitting next to him "is fast asleep while another is still in Brazil acting as a liaison with resistance forces. Those two," nodding towards some stretchers further away, "were wounded pretty heavily, but according to my corpsman, who's right over their with them, they should make it."

"Glad to hear it."

"Yeah, Major." Oneida sighed. "So am I."

Sensing that the conversation was over, Oneida turned his attention back to the book of notes. Skimming each page he briefly noted the key details, before turning to the next. Every so often he would come across certain words or phrases associated with past events. His memories of those events invoked a wide spectrum of emotions, ranging from anger to joy. Though the emotions were powerful, Oneida dismissed them. He would just have to express his feelings at another time.

Oneida felt his body lunge slightly forward as the helicopter banked towards one side. Apparently, the change in movement had awakened one of his men. As the aircraft leveled out the bearded sailor gave a quick yawn and nodded towards the back.

"So this our new home?" The young petty officer asked, rousing him self from sleep.

Oneida wondering what his comrade was speaking of looked out the helicopter.

"I guess so." He replied as the various buildings came into view. "Seems like staying in Paraguay won't be that bad after all."

The base was pretty modest in comparison to those bases owned and operated by the United States. There were a few buildings here and there, a smattering of tents, some helicopters, trucks, and various other armored vehicles. It was not large in any sense of the word, but at least it was a place to stay.

Oneida watched as the helicopter began its descent. Around him the other passengers began gathering their equipment as others finally started to wake up. When the aircraft finally touched down everyone remained where they sat, as Oneida's wounded were carried off by stretchers. One of the men carrying the stretcher, the team corpsman, gave Oneida a confident thumbs up as he passed by. That meant they were going to be okay.

"Glad to see they pulled through." Oneida's teammate said.

Oneida replied with a heavy sigh of relief. "You and me both. Ontiveros did one hell'uva job."

"Sure did." The fellow sailor replied. "But I'm about to find out where the hell we crash around here. Sleep for days." He smiled.

"Well don't get too comfortable." Oneida said, hoisting a bag over his back. "Because those intel folks are gonna want to hear about all the neat stuff we learned." Grinning.

"Never a minute to relax in this business LT."

"Unfortunately so Kaufman." Patting the sailor on the back. "But they don't pay us to complain."

"That they don't." Kaufman said as he moved down the ramp.

Stepping off the ramp, Oneida suddenly felt heavy. The realization that he survived that hellish ordeal was just starting to sink in. He remembered how close he came to dying and how close he had come to failing. But victory prevailed and for that he was thankful. He only wished that his deceased teammates were here to celebrate with him. Turning towards Brazil he muttered quietly, "wish you were here fellas, wish you were here."


	2. Chapter 1: It Pays to Be A Winner

Chapter 1

It Pays to be a Winner

Downrange as the troops called it, was a winding series of sand pits dug into the ground, complete with pop-up targets and elaborate obstacles. It reminded some men of the famed O-Course, not just because of how intimidating it looked but in how complex it was. Every run through Downrange was a surprise, since no two runs were ever the same. Unique scenarios such as these always kept the challenge alive and forced participants to stay on their toes. There was no telling what the training cadres had in store on this go around. But a lucky group of sixteen would soon find out.

Above the pits a man with an aura of experience paced about. His stride was confident and the look on his face was nothing short of intimidating. He was a man not known for yelling, as he had no desire to disrupt the positive attitude of his men. From his point of view screaming was only for the commanders who liked the sound of their own voices. Besides, there were other ways to motivate without screaming at the top of your lungs.

His walk came to a halt atop a wooden walkway overlooking Downrange and his men. As the call for attention resonated across the beach, he folded his arms and looked into their faces. They were young warriors, who like their commander, emanated confidence and strength. While his rank may have superseded them, he still regarded each as his brother. It was a rare occurrence that he ever referred to a man as a brother. But these men had earned that right and to call them brothers was the utmost gesture of respect.

As he continued to look upon his men, he felt himself traveling back in time. The salty smell of the ocean reminded him of his early years in the Teams. He recalled the days of Indoc, Hell Week, and endless training regimens. Those were unforgettable moments in his life, times when he was one of the guys. He would give anything to roll in the mud and still could if he had to. But now that he was a commander, his combat roles were minimized while his command authority was augmented. Leading from afar was not what he preferred, but he accepted these duties and did them well. This was where he should have been and whether he knew it or not, the men he commanded admired him immensely.

"At ease gentlemen!" The seasoned warrior announced. "Glad to see you all made it today!"

"HOOYAH COMMANDER MOGGS!"

The seasoned warrior smiled upon hearing the spirited reply. "I don't know if the troops are motivated enough. What do you think Ellis?" Turning towards a fellow brother in arms.

"Nope!" Ellis grinned. "But maybe a little incentive will help!"

"Great idea!" Moggs said loud enough for those below to hear him. "Gentlemen, your friend, Chief Petty Officer Ellis has recommended an incentive to boost your lack of motivation. This incentive is really quite simple. Loser gets surf torture, while the winner, well... I'll come up with something when I feel like it. So I'll ask again, are you motivated?"

"FUCKIN' 'A' SIR!"

"Good." Replying with a wide grin. "Now on to Downrange. Usually, you all would have just been facing off against the clock. However, on this go around you'll also be competing against one another. As you can see, we've divided you into your respective fireteams. Oneida will lead fireteam one and Meretti will lead fireteam two.

"The rules are quite simple. Two men at a time will proceed through their respective paths engaging a total of twenty-four pop up targets along the way. Since we want to test your proficiency with the M-4 and Desert Eagle, we have color coded the targets. Red targets will be engaged with your M-4s while yellow targets will be engaged with your Desert Eagle. Engaging a target with the wrong weapon results in a five second penalty while skipping a target results in a twenty second penalty. First one across the finish line wins. The team with the most men finishing first is the winner.

"As for the obstacles, my lips are sealed. You'll have to adapt as you go. For those of you waiting your turn I suggest you cheer your teammates on. We all know that it pays to be a winner in this business. So if you think your yelling will increase your chances of winning, be my guest.

"Alright gentlemen, the rules have been established. I expect a fair competition but only one winner. So without further ado, I now ask our first two participants, Oneida and Meretti, to step forward."

Two of the young warriors approached Downrange, complemented by the boisterous taunts and cheers of comrades. Stopping just short of the starting line both men briefly looked at one another with assured smiles. Neither of them planned on losing.

"Are we ready gentlemen?"

The two of them nodded as they took their stances.

"Remember, go means go. I don't want any false starts. Understood?"

"So are you gonna say one, two, three, go or one, two, three and go?" Oneida sassed.

"You better hope you win smart ass." Moggs threatened, as others laughed. Oneida simply grinned. "One... Two... Three... GO!"

Oneida and Meretti sprang ahead with the intensity of determined hunters. Sand flayed around their furious footsteps as they dashed forward. Nothing seemed to impede the competitors on their journey towards the finish line. But a few waiting surprises changed that.

A moment before the competitors engaged their targets; two smoke grenades immediately began filling the air with red and orange smoke. But the skill of the two warriors reduced the visual obstacles to nothing more than mere distractions. In one fluid motion they raised their rifles, fired on the targets and continued along.

The two sailors continued engaging targets while jumping over dirt mounds, crawling on their bellies, and running through tires. Then they ran into the mud, which proved to be a very formidable opponent. As both men slogged through the impervious substance they struggled to keep their balance. But neither of them was prepared for the sudden drop in the muddy pit. Meretti fell face first, while Oneida fell on his back. Covered in mud, they quickly picked themselves up and looked for more targets to shoot.

It took them roughly three minutes to traverse the mud pits. By the time they exited, their bodies screamed with exhaustion. Rest was what they needed. A win was what they wanted. Neither of them was going to let pain come between them and a victory. Set on finishing first, the men trudged forward for a final but treacherous run.

Greeting the warriors was a steep sand incline, towering almost a hundred feet in the air. Rocks, many of which looked very loose and unsteady lined its path. A careless misstep could result in a nasty tumble towards the bottom. Despite this obvious danger Oneida and Meretti charged towards the sand mountain, weapons poised to fire.

Setting foot on the rocky path gave the warriors a most unsettling feeling. But any and all reservations dissipated when targets began to appear. In an impressive display of dexterity, they fired and switched weapons while nimbly scaling the daunting obstacle. The race was still neck and neck until Meretti found his feet slipping on one of the rocks. His knees buckled briefly, forcing him to halt. Unfortunately for him, the short pause gave Oneida a noticeable advantage. Realizing his opponent was now in front he struggled to catch up. For a moment he felt that he could still pull out a win. But deep down inside, he knew he probably lost this one.

Meanwhile, Oneida was rapidly making his way down the other side of the incline. As he proceeded to engage more targets, his teammates began cheering him on. He could now see the finish line at the base of the massive hill. Winning would have been nice, but it wasn't worth getting injured in the process. Taking careful footsteps, Oneida was sure to reach the bottom in one piece.

By this time, Meretti was just reaching the summit. Seeing Oneida far ahead was not what he envisioned. But he swallowed his pride and decided to complete the race. Paying no attention to his taunting opponents Meretti carefully made his way to finish line. As he crossed it, Meretti took a moment to congratulate Oneida before catching his breath. With the first run through Downrange done, Moggs motioned to join his men.

"Nicely done Oneida." Moggs commented, clapping his hands.

"Thank you sir." The sweat drenched sailor replied.

"And Meretti." Moggs continued. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you like surf torture."

"Well sir." Meretti panted between words. "As hot as my ass is, I sure as hell wouldn't mind."

"Least you're not a sore loser." Moggs chuckled. "Now for those of you in the peanut gallery, its time to get back to your spots. Next up, Kaufman and Kim."

"Aw shit, why do I have to run against the former linebacker?" Kaufman jokingly complained.

"Hey don't be intimidated." One of his comrades reminded him. "Football players have shit for brains anyway."

Everyone had a hearty laugh at the comment.

"Laugh it up gentlemen." The former football player replied. "I speak with wins."

"Well if that's how you speak, you must have a pretty limited vocabulary." Kaufman continued. "'Cause last time I checked, you don't win many of these things."

"Alright fellas." Moggs spoke up, "Lets leave Kim alone and settle this like real men."

"Yeah… Pussies." Kim muttered.

"I heard that!" Moggs reminded Kim, complemented by some quick laughs. "Jesus Christ." Turning towards Oneida and Meretti, "I'm gonna end up sending a bunch of immature teenagers into battle."

"Don't take it so hard sir." Oneida reminded him as they walked back. "Besides, me and Meretti here are the ones who deal with 'em twenty four seven."

"Consider yourself fortunate sir." Meretti grinned.

"I guess." Moggs jokingly sighed. "Well let's see how these two shape up after this bout."

"It'll be interesting."

"Always is."

--

The flood of private military companies started slowly, like the first raindrops of a gathering storm. At first, the world paid little attention to this growing trend, as the public could name only one or two companies. Executive Outcomes, was one of the known few, assisting Sierra Leone in their fight against Liberia's Revolutionary United Front. But due to some rather questionable practices the company was disbanded in 1999, as part of South Africa's Regulation of Military Assistance Act, designed to limit the direct participation of private military companies in foreign conflict.

Soon after the dissolution of Executive Outcomes, more companies were founded. Dozens were located in South Africa, with others originating in the United Kingdom, Norway and the United States. Despite their increased presence, the role of private military companies was still quite limited. The United Nations, an organization that expressed vociferous dissent over the use of private militarism, was simply not going to let these companies do as they wished. But one fateful September day changed all that.

Many debated the real reasons for fighting the war on terrorism. Some believed that the war was a noble and necessary cause, while others regarded it as nothing more than a conflict rooted in greed and hatred. Regardless of who was right, the war on terrorism presented the private military industry with a golden opportunity.

From Iraq to Afghanistan, a number of private military companies experienced a degree of autonomy they had never known. These corporate armies were virtually immune to intricate bureaucracies and international law. Any nation willing to pay these companies was rewarded with the chance to engage in operations, that its military forces could not. But as the battles in Iraq and Afghanistan continued to rage, problems began to develop.

On an increasingly frequent basis private contractors were being implicated in cases of rape and civilian deaths. However most of the cases were never investigated and dismissed as enemy propaganda designed to taint the image of coalition forces, thereby garnering support for the terrorist cause. But a number of human rights groups saw right through, what they deemed as lies, and pursued lawsuits of their own. But lack of substantial evidence and opposition from powerful politicians effectively halted any attempts to file criminal charges against these thriving enterprises. Subsequently, the hired guns were able to proceed with their activities virtually uninhibited.

For uniformed soldiers, the debate on private military companies revolved around the issue of loyalty. On one end of the spectrum, there was this pervading belief that joining the ranks of a private army was tantamount to abandoning your fellow warriors. Those who accepted this argument believed that any man willing to fight as a contractor was not only betraying the bonds forged in battle, but was also betraying his love of country. Yet there were the soldiers who had no problem fighting for a corporation. In their opinion, private military companies respected and understood the warrior. As they saw it, there was no point in serving a government that gave them shoddy equipment, a government that constantly told them how to do their jobs.

A number of these dedicated warriors often found themselves wrestling with both arguments. One such man was Riley Melencampe, a veteran of the renowned US Army's Fifth Special Forces Group, affectionately known as the Green Berets. The seasoned warrior had fought valiantly on a number of fronts, from Pakistan to the Philippines. His experience as a soldier was highly sought after and viewed with admiration and respect.

Melencampe was a rather simple man who only believed in accomplishing the mission and getting his men home alive. He never boasted of his achievements, which included leading a raid that resulted in the capture of Al-Qaeda mastermind, Osama Bin-Laden. When asked of such exploits, he offered a modest smile and claimed he was just fighting for his country.

During his time in Iraq, Melencampe used to encounter private contractors on a daily basis. In fact, a number of them were men he served with at one time or another. Even though he did not agree with their decision to join a private army, he still respected them. Once and a while, Melencampe would sit down with these men, catch up on old times and discuss why they decided to fight for a private army. Every man he spoke with offered a different reason. Better pay, better equipment and less red tape were just a few of the explanations. But one commonality he discovered in these conversations was a pervasive sense of disappointment. These were men who fought selflessly for their countries, only to be neglected by the governments who sent them to war. They had essentially lost faith and were left with no other alternative but to fight as a contractor. At least then they would receive the recognition they deserved and be able to fight like they were intended.

Melencampe had never really contemplated these things before. He knew that a soldier was not one to criticize the ruling political establishment. But as he spoke to more and more contractors he gradually began to question whether or not his country really cared for him. Was he nothing more than an instrument of foreign policy or was he a man that was genuinely respected by the country he served? Melencampe never discussed these questions with any one, choosing to answer them himself. At first he did not want to accept the answer, but there were no ways around it. His government used him and his men only to exercise their political power. He was just a pawn on a government's chessboard. After years of service Melencampe retired as a Colonel, earning the Congressional Medal of Honor and countless other commendations. But all that meant nothing to a man who felt betrayed by a country he once loved.

Following his retirement, representatives from a budding company known as Defense Enterprises approached the Special Forces veteran with a modest offer. From what he could gather, the gentlemen were likely former military as well, obvious by their very fit appearance. Melencampe took a moment to listen, but ended up turning them away with some thank-you's and handshakes. But he took their cards for reference, in case a fellow Army buddy came to him looking for a job. Melencampe knew that was a lie. He just wanted some time to think things through. But after a few days of careful deliberation, Melencampe made up his mind and accepted the offer.

When Melencampe started working for Defense Enterprises, the company was just beginning to establish itself in the already saturated private military industry. With its meager budget and small force of contractors, Melencampe wondered how on earth the new business was going to compete with industry heavyweights such as Blackwater and DynCorp. But as Chief Military Specialist it was the former Green Beret's job to get his company noticed.

Persistence eventually paid off and Melencampe found himself in charge of the most successful military company of the day. No other company could boast of revolutionary technologies or a five hundred thousand strong force of contractors. His achievements were impressive. But there was one last thing he had to do, something the world would never forget.

The opportunity presented itself in the summer of 2022. Brazil, reeling from a devastating civil war, was in desperate need of a security force. The United Nations searched far and wide for a force of peacekeepers, but none would answer the call. Not many nations were willing to offer their troops to an area that reminded them very much the quagmire in Iraq a decade earlier. With no other options, the United Nations requested the services of one particular company.

Three years later, Melencampe still found it amusing that his plan worked so easily. There were so many signs, yet the world seemed to overlook them. Too bad, he thought. If only they had paid more attention, then none of this would have happened. But ignorance was a poor excuse for inaction. Maybe this time they would actually listen.

Brasilia turned out to be Melencampe's operational headquarters for Defense Enterprises. It was one of those cities built from scratch, a remarkable architectural achievement in more ways than one. Construction of this modern metropolis began in 1956, shortly after the Brazilian government decided on moving its two previous capital cities of Rio de Janeiro and Salvador de Bahia to a site located just 25 miles north of Luziania.

Three men were responsible for making Brasilia one of most revolutionary cities on the globe. Lúcio Costa, the winner of a contest for designing the city, was designated as the urban planner. Costa was assisted by Rio de Janeiro born architect Oscar Niemeyer, who ironically enough hosted the very same contest that Costa had won. And it was Niemeyer who would be credited with designing a number of structures throughout Brasilia. The third person involved in the creation of Brasilia was landscape artist, Roberto Burle Marx, a Sao Paulo native, famous for introducing the idea of modern landscapes to Brazil.

After four years of construction the city was finished, boasting a modern appearance unlike any the world had ever seen. The Monumental Axis, more specifically the Ministries Esplanade, was a most impressive sight to behold. Resembling the National Mall in Washington D.C. this area was home to the Brazilian government. A rectangular lawn sat in the middle, flanked on either side by a number of federal buildings and two, eight-lane highways. At one end of the Esplanade was the National Congress, easily identifiable by the dome like structure housing the Senate and the two interconnected, towering office buildings, housing a number of government offices.

Further behind the National Congress buildings was an open-air plaza known as the Praça dos Três Poderes, which in English, translated into Square of the Three Powers. The square was surrounded on three sides by the Congress buildings, the Palácio do Planalto, and the Palácio da Justiça. The Palácio do Planalto was the Brazil's equivalent of the White House. The only difference between the two was that the Palácio do Planalto was where the Brazilian president worked. Brazil's president would have stayed in the Palácio da Alvorada, an impressive structure located on the peninsula jutting into Lake Paranoá. Opposite the Palácio do Planalto was the Palácio da Justiça, Brazil's supreme court building or just simply, the Palace of Justice.

Another impressive structure gracing the Praça dos Três Poderes was the Complexo Cultural da República, home to Brazil's national library and museum. A semisphere easily identified the complex with a long walkway leading up to the entrance. The Catedral Metropolitana Nossa Senhora Aparecida was another sight to behold, a church supported by sixteen hyperboloid columns, rusting and old. Beautifully designed stained glass used to adorn the exterior. Now only bits and pieces remained, a visual testament to the building's glorious past. Surrounding the architectural wonder was an open plaza that used to be decorated with a set of sculptures known as the Four Evangelists.

Entering the church through the front doors reveals an open circular sanctuary, the sides slanting upwards at a steep angle towards an open-air ceiling. A center aisle leads directly to a stepped alter, once beautified by a simple wooden cross. Now the Christian image was hidden behind a giant screen, which emanated the images of war. On either side, there are folding chairs, desks, and computer equipment.

Soldiers shuffled about the sanctuary, delivering messages from comrades in the field whereas others manned the computers, assisting in a number of operations occurring nearby. Serving as the choir for the church turned war hub was a continuous mixture of garbled radio transmissions, each voice adding a unique flair to the song of battle. It was a busy time, a time, which lead Melencampe to wander outside.

Depressing gray clouds settled overheard, complemented by plumes of billowing smoke. Cacophonous gunfire sounded in the distance, interrupted every so often by a few deafening explosions. Daily visions like these always struck Melencampe with feelings of remorse. So many lives corrupted by the darkness of pain and death. Their will to dream now overshadowed by the primal, basic will to survive. Such was not the kind of world these people deserved to inherit. But this _was_ the world they inherited, a world of war. A pity they had to know it so intimately.

Brasilia was once such a beautiful place. A shame the city had become nothing more than a city of rubble. In a sense it had become a necropolis, a city of ghosts, an inhabitance for the wandering souls of those lost in a horrible conflict that had split the whole country in two. And now one could find pockets of life, violence, and peace.

Aside from the Cathedral turned command center there were a variety of other buildings used for military activities. But they were now mostly being used to fight of an endless insurgency that had been plaguing Melencampe's forces for quite some time.

Fighting against the tortured souls was not what Melencampe wanted. More than anything, he just wished they would have laid down their arms and welcomed his army. That however, was not the case and he never expected it to be. These were men and women who had survived a devastating civil war, only to see a foreign occupier take control of their country. To fight back was only natural. Anything less would have been quite a shock.

Melencampe took a look at the two towering congress buildings, or rather what was left of them. One had a gashing crater on its side; a tragic memory of a bombing that had killed many. Strangely enough, the building did not collapse, possibly saving many more lives. Now it served as headquarters for intelligence gathering and an observation tower from which snipers kept watch for enemies attempting to enter the fortress.

Granted these people were his enemy, he harbored no resentment towards them. After all, they were not born violent. Years of suffering made them so. Mass poverty, dysfunctional governance and ruthless crackdowns had driven this once simple lot over the edge. With no end in sight, they chose revolution, a desperate option for a desperate time.

The other buildings located on the Monumental Axis served as a barracks for those troops operating within Brasilia. The lawn itself served as the location for makeshift helipads, while the two, eight-lane highways on either side served as a resting place for a number of armored vehicles and trucks, all ready to embark on journeys into the not-so-nice parts of the city.

Melencampe honestly wished those objects of war did not have to be turned against this once innocent population. They had become circumstantial warriors, people who had no choice but to take up arms to ensure their very survival. Purged from society as dissidents, they were hunted and ostracized. They were labeled as traitors and were killed indiscriminately. But their idea of a better country spread like wildfire. Soon millions took to the streets in armed revolt, fractures erupted in the military and the politicians disappeared. Brazil was no more.

And what was Melencampe's group of soldiers doing to make their situation any better? Nothing, as far as he was concerned. Not that he believed he was particularly at fault for the situation these people had found themselves in. The UN invited him and his company, which he had to admit, was a half-truth. But despite some ulterior motives, ultimately, his army was not source of the pain these people had to grapple with. _Their_ government was responsible for this mess. It was _their_ failure to address the growing concerns of the people that had created this tragedy. If only they lent an ear to their problems, then maybe all this destruction could have easily been averted. But that was not what happened, and now a once beautiful nation had become a haven of conflict.

Even more shameful was the fact that the rest of the world simply stood by and watched as this country burned to hell. Brazil was once the world's forth-largest economy and not even that could force nations to act. Melencampe knew the world was very much an interconnected place. But money often justified what was and what wasn't done and these nations obviously saw no money in helping Brazil solve its problems. Then, when war finally happened it was too late to do anything. A number of world leaders condemned the situation and paid lip service to the idea of reconciliation. But in the end, their words meant absolutely nothing.

How oblivious those world leaders were in thinking they could once again rely on soldiers to clean up another one of their mistakes. They made a deadly mistake by assuming they could call in a private army to resolve the devastation. Maybe they never thought that an armed group of soldiers could defy them and actually succeed. Soldiers were supposed to be loyal to nations and nothing else. But how wrong of an assumption that was, for the men that Melencampe sent into battle shared loyalty in their struggle for recognition. They were loyal only to their cause and to each other. Melencampe would humble the arrogant leaders who assumed that soldiers would unquestionably do what they were asked to do. He was going to make sure they learned their lesson once and for all. Never again would the warrior be forsaken.

--

Moggs often joked that being promoted to a senior command position was the Teams' equivalent of joining the AARP. You no longer went out, as the shooters liked to say, instead spending more time as an advisor and planner. His wife told him that he should have been happy. He would no longer be getting shot at, he would no longer be spending long nights in some hard to pronounce country, and best of all he would get to stay home with his family. For a man indoctrinated in the mantra, the only easy day was yesterday, suddenly not being a part of the action felt rather unsettling.

But there was a bigger picture he had to recognize, a picture that included not only him, but others as well. There was his wife and his two daughters who he loved dearly and then there were his men and teammates. It was no secret that his first and most important family endured a lot over the years, his wife especially. Being gone for eleven months out of the year was one thing she accepted. There were many things she learned to tolerate over the years. But missing the births of both his children was one thing she never quite forgave him for.

They had grown complacent with one another over the years. They lived together and spoke to each other, but never quite knew each other. If anything, they were just two adults occupying a household, agreeing to raise a family. What saddened Moggs the most was that they were much closer at some point. There was a time when they were actually happy and unashamed of expressing their love for one another. Those were the days he truly missed, the days when they smiled at one another and held hands. Sadly, Mogg's stubborn devotion to work and his wife's frustration with such obstinate notions of duty turned that love into nothing more than a distant memory.

And his children. He loved them and they loved him, after all, he was their father. Nevertheless, the space between Moggs and his daughters had grown over the years. His little girls recognized him only as the man who had to leave early in the morning, the man who sometimes stayed for birthday parties, and the man who was hardly there. They were both very young and accepted this routine as a normal part of their daily lives. It would only be a matter of time before they realized that their lives did not have to be this way. Moggs knew he had to be there for his children.

Despite this noble desire, Moggs was still hesitant about leaving the Teams. Like the members of his first family, the warriors of this organization were very important to him. He went through a lot with these people, surviving the dangers of firefights and government bureaucracy. The thought of having to bid them farewell was awfully sobering. Even though he could keep in touch with them through an occasional phone call or e-mail, not being able to serve with them anymore would take some getting used to. But deep down inside, he knew his wife and his daughters needed him the most.

Realizing there were only a few months left of his career, Moggs decided to put the sorrows behind him and get to work. A massive operation lay in front of him and it was his job to make sure the shooters were ready to put their guns in the fight. Staring out of one of the conference room windows, Moggs wondered where he was going to start.

"Hard to believe isn't it?" A voice said from the back of the room.

Recognizing the voice, Moggs casually turned around and asked, "What's hard to believe Ellis?"

"That, that was us thirteen years ago." Ellis pointed out some white shirted BUD/S trainees on the beach.

Moggs observed the young bunch of sailors as they made their way into the evening surf. "Sure is hard to believe. Wonder how many of 'em will wear the Brown shirts?"

Ellis chuckled as he motioned towards a seat. "With Stelmack out there yelling at 'em. I'd say… Two."

"Stelmack?" Joining his old friend at the table.

"I'm just saying it like it is my friend." The Chief Petty Officer grinned. "And it sucks for those white shirts that Stelmack hasn't been in the best of spirits lately."

"Tough shit for them."

"Well sorta." Ellis added, looking at some papers on the table. "Actually he's going on his honeymoon pretty soon. He's feeling quite well actually. Its just that he's really good at playing one of the Haters."

Moggs smirked with a hint of disbelief. "Stelmack? One of the Haters? The guy doesn't have a mean bone in his body."

"And you think those boys believe that?" Nodding towards the young men on the beach.

"Maybe not." Moggs admitted. "But seriously, Stelmack is too nice of a guy to be a hater."

"I thought the same thing too. Yet, the more and more I think about it, he reminds me of Instructor Capers."

"Yeah, come to think of it he does. I remember him being one of the nicest guys I've ever met. Hell, he even invited some of us to his house to watch a football game before Hell Week."

"And soon as Hell Week rolls around, he's the anti-Christ all of the sudden."

"What was that nickname we gave him? Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde."

Ellis laughed heartily. "Yeah he tore me a new one when he heard me say that."

"Then he gets into my ass, cause you were in my boat crew." Chuckling.

"You look like you wanted to kick my ass. Shit, I didn't know whether to run from you or him."

Moggs was close to tears. "I really was on the verge of strangling you. But after seeing the look on Capers's face, I nearly bit a hole in my lip."

"Damn."

"Did you see his face?!" Moggs asked through bursts of laughter. "That fool turned hotter than a habanero."

"And made us feel colder than a blustery day in Chicago."

"Yeah, those were the days buddy."

"Sure were."

The two men paused, taking a moment to reflect on their past. They were men who earned their SEAL pins together, served in the same platoon and survived the same harrowing engagements. For lack of better words, the two were more than brothers, selfless men who never thought twice of risking their lives for one another. Their bond enabled them to confide in one another in a number of personal matters, including the meanderings of fear and doubt that men rarely speak of. They regarded the other's advice with an unquestionable assuredness rooted in trust. That same trust was what defined their relationship for many years. But now those many years of service to country and one another were coming to an inevitable point of closure. The moment would be a melancholic one. Yet with so much work to be done, neither let the realization of that day distract them from work.

"So looks like this is last leg of preparations." Moggs spoke first, looking over some papers in a manila folder. "I just finished going over some ideas with the other two platoons so I can present a plan to the honchos over at SOCOM. I plan on meeting with Oneida and Meretti later so I can get to work. But I need your input about training first."

"Now the real fun starts." Ellis replied with sarcasm.

"Well as a starting point let us consider who our boys will be pitted against."

"The finest group of mercenaries the world has ever known. Right up there with Spartacus and those who followed his doomed revolt."

"You think Melencampe is doomed?"

"As the saying goes, all good things must come to an end. And in our case it may be harder to force that end upon him. Melencampe is no fool and while I do believe he'll give us one hell'uva fight, ultimately his ambition to create a soldier state will collapse on itself."

"Not disagreeing with you there. So that leaves us wondering how that collapse will happen."

"Too early to tell. We have no intel on their internal situation which makes your guess as good as mine. But believe me, with all those different nationalities serving together; it's hard to believe that every one of those men is on the same page. As a wild notion I'd say defections are likely. But even that's a hunch."

"A plausible one though." Noting the Chief Petty Officer's words. "So how do we kill 'em?"

"As always we recon first, find out how they talk to each other, ID the C-three and C-two, and find the source of that damn EMP Shield."

"How do we prep?"

"Already taken care of that. Three of your platoons have a three-week training slot up at Camp Gonsalves, in Okinawa. Again." Playfully sighing. "Along with some training platoons from teams two and four attached to NSWU-8, I've also invited some Marines from the Thirty-First MEU, First Battalion, Third Marines. We've already set up some mock targets for you to observe, so your guys can work on their recon skills. The only thing we need is your input on exactly the kind of training you want to put your men through."

"Well we've been doing this for the last six months, so we should be used to it by now. Wonder if they'll have as much fun as they did with the Aussies at Canugra."

Ellis laughed heartily. "Good times those were. The Aussies sure as hell gave 'em a run for their money."

"But I don't think those Marines at Gonsalves are gonna let by boys off the hook either. So... Direct action?"

"Right after Okinawa, your guys are set to play around the JRTC. I've already worked and talked with some of the guys down there. Right now, we're planning some nice exercises. We haven't finished our preparations yet, but by the time your boys get down there, we'll have everything worked out."

"Any previews?"

"Nothing really spectacular. Just your standard set of MOUT exercises. But because you boys are coming to visit them, they're taking a somewhat different approach. They've brought in a lot of outside help, such as a hand picked platoon from the Seventy-Fifth Rangers, a few sixty drivers from the SOAR, and some tankers from the Second Armored Division. Believe me, you guys will have a blast."

"I guess, now that we have hell on wheels to worry about." Making a reference to the 2nd Armored Division's slogan. "That leaves us figuring out how to keep the boys entertained for the last week here."

"No more fun and games?" Ellis joked.

"I think that was the last of them. I'll probably just set up some basic room clearing exercises, a few runs, and shooting drills. Don't wanna tire them out before the real fun starts."

"Sounds good." Ellis nodded. "So who ended up winning?"

"Oneida's team. But I gave both surf torture just for the hell of it." Moggs chuckled.

"And I thought Instructor Capers was cruel."

"Hey, had to get them motivated."

"Whatever you say." Ellis stood up. " Wanna go down with me to see Stelmack, he always loves it when friends come down to visit."

"Yeah, haven't talked to him in a while. Then after I meet with Oneida and his crew, maybe we can head out for some rounds?" Moggs suggested.

"Okay, but you got the tab."

"Aye aye Chief."


	3. Chapter 2: Straight Shooters

Chapter 2

Straight Shooters

He had one of those last names, the kind that was difficult for people to pronounce. For anyone curious enough to ask what his last name meant, he would respond by saying _Oneida is a name of a tribe that was in the Iroquois Confederacy. In its proper context, the name translates into people of the standing stone or just simply standing stone_. Most people found such an explanation fascinating and tried to ask him more questions about his heritage, which he absolutely hated. Not that he was ashamed of his heritage. It was just the prospect of being looked at as some kind of history exhibit that bothered him.

Oneida, however was much more forgiving towards his fiancé and teammates. These were the people who genuinely respected him, people he wouldn't mind telling about his heritage. He even allowed his teammates to give him the nickname, _Stone_, a fitting testament for a warrior whose shot seemed impervious to the effects of recoil. _Steady Hands_ was the other alternative, but Oneida declined. Too many sexual references could be drawn with that name.

Sexual innuendo aside, the young lieutenant was busy lining his ACOG scope on a paper target. Lying on his stomach he began inhaling and exhaling deeply. Patiently, Oneida waited until his breathing fell into a rhythm, watching the crosshairs rise and fall in a predictable manner. A light easterly breeze prompted him to tilt his rifle slightly right and up of the target to compensate for the wind's speed and direction. Once he felt comfortable, he squeezed the trigger, watching yet another round perforate the paper target half a second later.

"Do you always have to take your sweet old time?" Meretti asked, noting the accurate shot.

Oneida removed his ear protection and smiled at his teammate. "If it means me shooting better than your sorry ass, then yes. I'll take as much time as I need sailor."

"Sailor my ass." Meretti retorted as he helped his comrade to his feet.

"'Bout time you boys finished." A balding gentleman announced from one of the shooting stations.

"Oh I was done ages ago, Sarge." Meretti told the former Marine. "Oneida's the one waiting for the Second Coming."

"And I will sitteth on the right hand of God, the Father almighty." Oneida joked.

"God don't like ugly." The Range master grinned. "But what the hell do I know, I haven't been to church in years."

The three of them laughed.

"Like God has a tally of how many times you've been to church." Oneida said taking a seat. "After the shit we've seen, I think God has more important things to worry about."

"No disagreements there." The Marine replied pulling up a chair next to the two officers. "So heard you boys are shipping out to Okinawa by the end of the week?"

"Yup." Oneida nodded. "Three weeks of perfecting jungle warfare up at the JWTC."

"Again." Meretti reiterated.

"That's right. What trip is this?" Sarge asked.

"Numero tres. We were training with the Aussies down in Canugra last time."

"Practice makes perfect they say." Sarge mused.

"Yeah especially when they bring in a few SEAL platoons and a whole MEU battalion to whip you into shape."

"Really." The marine's ear's perked up. "Which MEU?"

"You don't wanna hear about the SEAL teams?" Oneida asked half-jokingly.

"No, I wanna hear about the real, tough guys." Sarge teased. "Not you pussies."

"I'll take that as a compliment… Pops!" Meretti laughed.

"Got you there old man." Oneida continued.

"You're lucky I like you two." Sarge warned. "But seriously, what MEU you boys training against?"

"The thirty-first." Meretti finally revealed.

"First-Battalion, Third Marines." Oneida added. "Jesus Meretti, you almost hurt the guys feelings."

"Fortuna Fortes Juvat." Sarge grinned broadly.

"And what in the hell is that supposed to mean?" Oneida asked.

"Fortune Favors the Brave." Sarge announced proudly.

"Ooh rah." Oneida said rolling his eyes. "Guess I should be scared huh?"

"You know what?" Sarge said suddenly standing up.

"Whoa, whoa, don't pull a muscle." Meretti cracked.

Sarge lunged at Meretti putting him in a playful headlock.

"Kev, Kev!" Meretti acted like he was choking. "I'm turning blue. I think he's gonna kill me."

Oneida began to walk away. "Sorry Sean, you shouldn't have talked about my shooting. That's your ass."

Sarge let the young officer go, the two of them laughing heartily.

"Damn Kevin, is that any way to treat your XO?" Sarge asked him.

"Oh, him." Playfully punching his comrade in the arm. "He should be used to it by now."

"You two are a pair of nuts." Sarge shook his head.

"I'm the left one." Oneida crassly announced.

Sarge chuckled heartily. "I always knew something wasn't right about you SEAL types. God help these wayward souls."

"And let the church say Amen." Meretti had to add.

"Yes Lawd." Oneida held up his hands mockingly. "Bless they little hearts."

"And my wife says I need Jesus." Sarge muttered. "So why they got you boys training against a whole battalion of America's finest?"

"Because our friends in Brazil are supposed to be just that good." Oneida said plainly. "The brass thinks the best way to prepare is to face off—and you'll only hear this once—against the best. Go ahead… Rub it in."

"GOT DAMN! The world must be coming to an end!" Sarge shouted, throwing his hands in the air. "A SEAL admitting that we're the best."

"Down boy." Meretti mumbled.

"Okay, okay." Sarge calmed down. "You may continue my good sir."

Oneida shook his head. "Well from what we've learned from intel, the guys we'll be facing off against, are from some of the best light infantry units from around the world."

"And as you could guess, most of 'em are either Rangers or Marines from the good ole US of A." Meretti added.

"Sounds like you'll have your hands full."

"That's an understatement. I haven't even mentioned where the other guys are from. Shoot, there are Brits, Aussies, Israelis, Russians, Chinese, Canadians, South Africans, Japanese, Koreans. Name just about any nation with a half-good armed force and they're there." Oneida explained.

"Lemme guess, a bunch of guys that got chips on their shoulders, about their countries not caring for 'em huh?" Sarge said with a sudden hint of anger.

"To make a long story short… Yes." Meretti verified.

"What is this world coming to?" Sarge asked rhetorically. "Selfish bastards."

"Took the words right out of my mouth."

"Well that's what they are, Kevin. No. Matter of fact they're cowards taking over a nation—that's already been through hell—just to prove a point. And that Melencampe." Sarge shook his head. "I actually used to admire him at one point. But now that he's done this, killed innocent people and turned against his country, I've lost all respect for the guy."

"And its funny, all this talk he gives about politicians and ideologues, sending soldiers to their deaths for their own ambitions. I mean, how is he any different?" Oneida asked. "Whether the son of a bitch wants to accept it or not, he's turned into an ideologue who wants to settle a score. Now I know there are a lot of messed up things politicians can do to their military. But c'mon. Taking over a country that has nothing to do with your problems? That's just pathetic."

"You know, I don't get why he decides to pick on everyday Americans. Harking on about how they don't care about guys like us. Let me tell you. I remember when we finally returned from Iraq, battered and bruised, physically and emotionally, a whole bunch of people turned out to welcome us back. Even folks who were against the war thanked us and said they were glad we made it back. Cities, small towns, everywhere people cheered and hailed us as heroes. Now, I wonder where this Melencampe fella and all those other ungrateful ass holes were when those things happened?" Sarge fumed.

"Too busy feeling sorry for themselves." Meretti replied. "I mean you're a soldier. Buck up and deal with it. Yeah it sucks to be used. But guess what? They got bunches of people here in this country that gotta deal with some shit too. They ain't the only ones who got problems."

"Ain't that the truth?" Sarge nodded.

"What's even more wild are his demands." Meretti stated. "The guy says he wants to create a sovereign soldier state smack in the middle of Brazil."

"He's joking." Sarge laughed in disbelief. "Does he actually think that a state run by soldiers, for soldiers will actually work? Even if his pipe dream comes true, does he suddenly think the Brazilians are gonna let him have such? Either the guy is nuts, or there's another reason for all this foolishness."

"Plus, Melencampe's not a statesman, and neither are his closest of advisors I'd venture to say. After all, he's a trained killer like us, and so are his men. And in order for a government to work, you need proper representation, some sort of voting system, and a bunch of people to fill up your country."

"Ha!" Meretti laughed. "To think that one of those guy's has a family stupid enough to move down there with 'em."

"Yeah." Oneida laughed. "Like some Joe says, 'hey Mary, bring yourself and the kids. It'll be a blast with all the gunfire and resistance fighters running around. I got a nice house picked out for us; complete with bullet holes, a caved in roof, and no running water. Plus, the streets are filled with bodies for Fido to scavenge over. And Mary, my God, you can get a job helping the soldiers with their guts hanging out'."

"A nice assessment Kevin." Sarge laughed. "Couldn't have said it any better myself."

"It's the truth. I honestly think the world has gone _that_ mad sometimes." Oneida said.

Sarge patted him on the back. "The world's always been mad Kevin and it always will be. But madness does have its place."

"How so?" Meretti asked somewhat puzzled.

"It's what makes those rare moments of peace seem so much more worthwhile. It makes you strive for some sort of order and reason in the mess we know as war."

"Well thanks Plato." Meretti joked.

"You're too kind." Sarge chuckled. " But don't pay me any mind. Those are just the words of a man who's seen a lot over the years." Not looking up as he cleaned a weapon.

"Well it's food for thought anyway." Oneida said as he stood up. "But yeah me and Meretti gotta meet with Moggs and Ellis."

"Well tell those old farts to stop by the range for once." Sarge smiled. "Haven't spoken to them in a while."

"We'll remind 'em." Meretti assured the Marine.

"But don't fret Sarge, you got some more guests stopping by later this afternoon." Oneida grinned.

Sarge groaned. "You mean the smart one's of the bunch?"

"Yes sir. The most mature members of my platoon." Oneida laughed.

"I'm getting too old for this shit." Sarge said raising his voice. "But it sure as hell beats getting shot at."

"Can't say that enough."

"Definitely, sir."

"Well, we're off finally." Oneida embraced the marine. "Don't hurt my boys, y'hear?"

Sarge smiled. "Your boys? Shoot, crazy as those sailors are, they might just hurt _me_."

"Like you and your Marines weren't crazy." Oneida joked. "Besides, like Meretti said. Buck up and deal with it."

"Oh. Yeah." Sarge replied sarcastically. "Don't worry about me. I'll stay frosty."

"That's what I wanna hear Pops." Meretti patted the marine on the back.

"Just get the hell outta here." Sarge laughed. "Thanks for stopping by fellas."

"Anytime."

--

Never had they anticipated the day when they would fear the wrath of soldiers. It was a fear unlike any they had known before, a kind of fear that represented their failure to vindicate themselves as the rightful leaders of the free world. The fact that a band of insurrect soldiers managed to upstage them threatened to undermine the very foundations of their power. They tried to smother the apparent victory of their adversaries by referring to them as nothing more than tyrants and traitors. But the unprecedented display of defiance by a half-million men had caused numerous people, all across the world, to view the supposed superpowers as nothing more than paper tigers.

Taken aback by the sudden change in world opinion, they set out on a journey to reclaim the power that was stolen from them. The path to reclamation was lead by a determined few, who made it their sole purpose to eradicate this dangerous, new enemy, once and for all. But when their first strike failed to dislodge the traitors in any way, they cowered into a shadow of fear and doubt.

Putting the superpowers in their place was any easy task. The battle for Brazil was however, much more difficult. While most of the country's military power was destroyed in its civil war, there was still a substantial amount of resistance to be quelled. Melencampe knew he and his army were not going to be welcomed as conquering heroes. He just never thought that a people broken by one war had the strength to fight another.

Despite his adversaries' best efforts, Melencampe and his men still managed to drive them underground. However, the battle was far from over. A steady stream of hit and run attacks was plaguing his forces and it was proving to be somewhat effective. The unique situation seemed very reminiscent of the insurgency in Iraq he experienced so many years ago. They would hide away, bid their time and wait for an opportunity to strike, which usually occurred when least expected. Brazil was no different and trying to stamp out all resistance was an exercise in patience.

Quixada was the main problem. She was the motivation behind the resistance. Then there was Alexandre, the strength and brains of the resistance. Both however, were very charismatic leaders and taking either of them out would greatly alleviate his problems. Of course that would require finding them, which was something Melencampe had yet to do.

There was very little information on these two. All he knew was that Quixada was a Brazilian punk rocker, infamous for her politically charged lyrics. Alexandre on the other hand was a former colonel in the Brigada Infantaria Paraquedista, Brazil's elite paratrooper division.

It was nothing short of ironic that both people were now working together considering that the two of them were mirror opposites. One was a staunch radical and the other was a conservative defender of the state. Both represented the epitome of what each despised.

Yet the cruel circumstances of war united them under a common cause, a noble fight for independence and survival.

They were the lifeblood of this resistance, a source of strength and motivation for thousands of determined souls eager to take back a country that they believed, was stolen from them. Melencampe knew it would take more than advanced weaponry to crush the morale of a people who had nothing more to lose. Death was only an end to them, a twisted gift of mercy, an escape from a world mired in war. But they were fatalist by no means. These battered souls fought with the frenzy of religious zealots, viewing death as a necessary price for freedom. _How familiar._

Melencampe picked up one of the many intelligence photos taken of Quixada and quietly remarked on how young she was. How a woman of only twenty-three years could motivate thousands to fight for their country was just amazing. There were experienced politicians in the United States that couldn't even convince two people get off their lazy asses to vote. But Quixada was not a politician. She was a former punk rocker who once criticized the leaders of her country. Now she found herself in a position not to rule, but to lead. Maybe that was all these people wanted in the first place, a leader who would actually help them. _Better late than never I guess_.

Then there was Alexandre, a man who Melencampe respected but showed no remorse for. This was the man that had claimed the lives of one too many of his bravest. This was why he hated Alexandre so much.

Alexandre was a shrewd commander who had no trouble training former noncoms in the art of warfare. Melencampe knew it was no easy task getting everyday people to fight and even kill for their country, more so that latter. But as experience revealed to him, desperate situations always brought out things in people they never knew they had, which often times was a will survive. This was the trait Alexandre recognized in his countrymen and used it to his advantage. Used however, did not seem like the right identifier for a man like Alexandre. For as much as Melencampe hated this man, he had to admit that Alexandre was no tyrant. He was a man who genuinely cared for his people and realized the position he was in. Not many men were forced to make the decisions Alexandre had to make. Sending men to die was no easy task especially when battles were barely won and mostly lost. That was exactly the situation Alexandre found himself in and for a moment Melencampe felt empathy for his enemy. Surprised at himself, he quickly shrugged the thought off and prepared to discuss some preliminary details for a search and destroy mission in a troublesome area of Brazil.Killing Alexandre would have been a blessing. But in the meantime Melencampe would take whatever he could get.

"Colonel." An aging gentleman in full combat gear said walking into the Cathedral.

"Good to see you Major." Melencampe returned the junior officer's salute. "Follow me."

The two of them headed towards a section of the sanctuary quartered off as Melencampe's personal quarters. The arrangements were not spectacular. There was a cot, a half emptied ruck and a nail in the wall adorned by Melencampe's green beret. A single desk sat in the corner covered in papers, pistol magazines and a single electric outdoor lamp. Melencampe took a seat on his cot while the Major took out a chair.

"So Major, what news do you bring me today?"

"Good news and bad news, Colonel." The Major replied.

"Give me the bad news then."

"One of our weapons convoy's was hit again just outside of Brasilia, near the southern shantytown."

"Casualties?"

"Ten KIA and fourteen wounded; out of thirty, sir."

Melencampe sighed out of frustration. "How many weapons were lost?"

"Damage assessment is currently being done right now, sir. Do you want me to che…"

"Get it to me later, Major. What's the good news?"

"We captured someone who was wounded in the attack; he's currently being interrogated right now. And as I've learned thus far he has information that will definitely assist on that search and destroy a few days from now."

"How so?"

"For one thing, they've said that one resistance commander is somewhere in the town. We haven't gotten names yet, but we're working on it." The major grinned darkly.

"Good. Now we just have to worry about the mission."

"No worries sir, we already have recon teams en route to the area."

"Get to me ASAP on the information they gain." Melencampe stood up. "But with regards to the mission I have a few things I'd like to discuss."

"I'm listening."

"Three sixteen man squads divided into six, eight man fireteams will insert into the town. Two squads will move in from the surrounding landscape on foot while the remaining squad inserts via helo."

"CAS, sir?" The major took some notes.

"Keep the helos on station in a circular orbit around the town. The less helos we have, the better. Don't our friends getting off a lucky shot with an RPG, or worse, using one of our own weapons against us."

"Which leads me to one question sir."

"Shoot." Melencampe offered.

"You think that attack on our weapon's convoy was a trap, an attempt to lure us to one of their towns for an ambush?"

"There's a damn good chance and I wouldn't put it past them." Melencampe admitted. "I'll tell you what Major, I'll make my decision on the go-ahead when you get back to me on the status of our weapons. If there's something missing that could really hurt us then the mission's a no-go."

"Understood sir. Anything else?"

"Make sure you cross reference the information our prisoners are giving us with the information gained by our recon teams." Melencampe stood up. "If they're trying to screw us with some misinformation I want to stop them in their tracks."

"Will do sir."

"Alright. The ball's in your court Major. Make it happen."

"Yes sir." Saluting his commander and walking out.

Alone in his quarters Melencampe began to ponder the possibility of a trap. But there would be no concern of a trap if only those weapons were transported by air. Frustrations were however what all warriors had to contend with, especially those who were tasked to lead others into the fray of battle. Melencampe knew he would learn as the war progressed but was not too proud of that fact. Learning in this fashion meant that men had to die, their deaths serving as harsh lessons about the battlefield. Every commander hated losing men and now that Melencampe was in charge of half a million men, it became an even harder burden to bear. But he knew that war was a monster with a mind of its own. Believing the illusion that he could actually control war not only naïve, it was stupid. The only thing you could do with war was adapt and hope for the best. Such was the disposition that war put warriors in.

Yet the situation was not as bad as it seemed. It was tough, but Melencampe knew he would get this job done. His men were confident, professional and eager to fight. This was their war, their fight to be recognized by those nations that betrayed them. The resistance was just a thorn in this grand scheme. _Just finish the fight Riley_.


	4. Chapter 3: Making Moves

Chapter 3

Making Moves

Oneida found it amusing that even though it was more than twenty years into the twenty-first century, the Navy was still taking twelve hours to transport personnel across the globe. The young officer would have enjoyed the nonstop journey from Chambers Field in Norfolk to the Marine Corps Air Station in Futenma, Japan if only the aircraft wasn't a giant trash hauler. How neat it would have been to fly on one of those 787s the Air Force was using. _In your dreams Kevin, this C-17 will have to do._

The massive cargo plane's boring interior convinced Oneida that sooner or later he would lose his sanity due to pure mediocrity. There were no windows in the aircraft preventing him from admiring the view from up high. Time was also an issue, since the only way to tell the difference between night and day was to watch a single red light cut on in the fuselage. Wristwatches could have also told him what time it was, but not being able to see a moon or sun drove him crazy.

At least the cabin was spacious. Sixteen cots were set up on the on the floor for Oneida and each of his men. They slept, read newspapers, played card games or engaged in idle conversation. Various weapons and other pieces of equipment were stowed towards the back of plane leaving plenty of space to walk around to shake off boredom. But two of Oneida's men were bound and determined to bring an end to the monotony. Grabbing an intercom one of the sailors began speaking.

"Good morning ladies and gentlemen." A red headed sailor began. "My name is Petty Officer Shane Kaufman and this lazy ass to my right is Petty Officer Harrison Silver. Say hi Silver."

Silver turned to Kaufman with an obscene hand gesture.

"Yes Silver, I understand, I'm number one. Now just stand there and wave. So, where was I? Ah yes. According to our pilot, who is quite an attractive brunette I dare say, has stated that we are currently thirty thousand feet over the Pacific Ocean.

"We should be landing on the island of Guam within the hour, and no Chief that is not the fifty-first state."

"It should be!" Master Chief Petty Officer William Brigham replied.

"I concur." Kaufman smiled. "Now if we could only get rid of New Jersey."

A few sailors cheered in mock support while one shouted in protest.

"I'm from Camden asshole!"

"Well that's unfortunate." Kaufman chided, throwing his comrades into hysterics. "Silver offers his sympathies."

Silver playfully acted like he was wiping a tear from his eye.

"To ensure a safe landing there are a few things you must do. First, all laptops must be stowed away in their proper carrying cases. So all you sick sad individuals busy staring at Internet porn must put away your computers, now, especially you Swaggert."

"Sorry Kaufman." The sailor smiled. "Won't happen again."

"Don't worry about it. It's a perfectly natural part of growing up. As long as you wash your hands when you're done, you should be fine."

Silver walked up to Swaggert and handed him a bar of soap once again launching the sailors into loud guffaws.

"It is also essential that we all make sure that the children are safely secured in their seats, especially the ones who drool when they sleep, much like Ontiveros here."

Sure enough the sailor was fast asleep in his seat unaware of the comic relief it was offering his teammates.

"Now in case of an emergency there is a rear door that, hopefully, will open up in the event of an emergency."

Silver pointed towards the back of the cabin like a flight attendant.

"But with all that shit back there, I seriously doubt we'll live anyway. So in the unlikely event that that rear door does not open, you will kindly be asked to put your heads between your legs and kiss your asses goodbye."

Silver silently demonstrated the action bringing most of his teammates to tears. Kaufman was about to say another word but not before an Air Force crew chief appeared. Fortunately, the gentleman was in good spirits and patted Kaufman on the back as he made the announcement that they were 45 minutes away from Guam.

"Okay well thank you Staff Sergeant Briggs for that announcement. Ladies and gentleman I thank you for paying attention to these very important directions. We hope you will choose Six-Six-Six Airlines as your preferred carrier when you travel again. Thank you and enjoy your hour long stay on the island of Guam."

The sailors cheered and clapped in mock approval as they motioned towards their seats.

"In the air for another hour and those two would've gone mad." Someone said.

"We need that kind of thing sometimes." Oneida replied. "Shows us that we laugh just like everyone else. Like Sarge told me at the range a few days ago, humor reminds us that we're still human."

"If you say so. By the way, you think they got food down there, y'know, something other than Pop-Tart MREs?"

"They should. Besides, Andersen is in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. They got to have stockpiles of food there, in case a typhoon happens or something like that."

"We ain't in typhoon season are we?"

"Not since Guam became the fifty-first state." Oneida grinned.

"You know I wish we were back six years ago when I was one of your instructors when I could've given you surf torture for that kind of comment."

"Ouch." Oneida laughed. "You could've just flipped me the bird or something and I would've apologized."

"Well unlike you I choose to rise above such youthful buffoonery. You should try it sometime."

"Thanks for the advice, I'll do it once Guam is admitted into the Union."

"You know what? Don't talk to me for the rest of this flight."

Oneida chuckled. "Just a joke Chief. Besides, in about fifteen minutes we'll be in Guam and after that, in about seven hours, we'll be in Okinawa."

"Well the sooner I find my feet on terra firma, the better I'll feel."

"Because you're hungry or you have a fear of flying?"

"A little bit of both. I need some real food and plus being high above the ocean, miles away from land ain't necessarily the most comfortable feeling either. We crash, then it won't be us getting a good meal, it'll be the sharks."

"Well, it is feeding time." Oneida teased.

"Do you ever take anything I say seriously?"

"Only when we're working." He smiled.

"And we're not?"

"Look around Bill." Oneida laughed. "If you consider sleeping around and playing cards an occupation, then yes, we are currently working."

"Alright smart ass." Master Chief Petty Officer William Brigham conceded. "So what we got going for us when we get to Okinawa?"

"Moggs tells me three weeks of training at the JWTC. Ellis however, is the one who's going to meet us there and run us through the paces."

"Remember you telling me that. Get anymore news on the specifics?"

"Ellis and Moggs told me it's subject to change, but as far as I know each week will be devoted to a particular phase of jungle warfare. First week they said is probably going to be devoted to recon. Said they're setting up some mock targets for us to observe to try and simulate our mission as close as possible."

"What about the other two?"

"Can't remember which comes first off the top of my head, but I know that one will focus on what to do in the event of hostile contact."

"Damn, seven days worth of yelling out strong rights and strong lefts. They got enough bullets for us?"

"They will." Oneida assured Brigham. "I've been hearing that the Marines there have been getting kind of bored recently. They've been anxious to squeeze a few triggers and the announcement of our arrival has sort've gotten 'em riled up. So yeah, in order to accommodate those grunts they should have more than enough to go around."

"Yeah, it figures. Never met a Marine who couldn't shoot." Brigham added.

"And never told one they couldn't."

"Any word on Fort Polk?"

"Haven't heard much, but I know it's going down after we're done in Okinawa. As Moggs told me, it'll be a blast."

"Wonder if that's a good or bad thing." Brigham chuckled.

"Never know with him." Laughing as well. "But for now, lets just get to Guam, so you can write a letter to the President asking her to add Guam to the Union."

"I hope you get sick and throw up on this flight."

"Well if I start feeling woozy, I'll be sure you're right next to me."

"You're a piece of work, you know that?"

"Hey, that's what friends are for."

"And to think you're the guy I forged a life long bond with in battle."

"Which means you're stuck with me."

"Remind me to sit next to someone else when we take off again. Okay buddy?"

"You'll miss me." Oneida grinned.

"Not in a million years. Why don't you bother Meretti for a change? Besides, I got to really use the bathroom."

Meretti sauntered over to Meretti's seat, rubbing some sleep away from his eyes.

"What the hell were Kaufman and Silver talking about?" Meretti asked somewhat groggily.

"Just making fools of themselves, Sean." Oneida replied. "I'm surprised you slept through the whole thing."

"Didn't sleep too well last night." Meretti explained.

"Well damn Sean, what exactly were you doing." Oneida laughed. "You know. On second thought I don't wanna know."

Meretti shook his head in embarrassment. "I see some folks haven't changed."

"Never change for my friends." Oneida smiled.

"That you don't." Taking Brigham's vacant seat. "So, its combat in three month, eh."

"Skipped right over the training I see." Oneida chuckled. "Worried about war already? C'mon bud, this isn't the first time you've put your gun in the fight."

"I know that, Kevin." Meretti sighed. "But something about this mission is different."

"No kidding." Oneida admitted. "First time a PMC becomes the bad guy and…"

"The first time I got to lead men into battle as a commander."

Oneida paused for a moment suddenly going back to a point in time when he was feeling just like Meretti. It caught him off guard and he struggled to provide some consolation.

"And you're worried that you haven't had enough preparation yet?" Oneida asked. "Well, that's what we're going to the JWTC for. To give us a chance to see what our strengths and weaknesses are. This is the time when mistakes are forgiving, Sean. Take advantage of it and try to learn something. Besides, there's a reason why we were one of the three platoons tasked with this mission."

"I know I got experience in the fight Kevin. But those were against guys who couldn't fight for shit. You know that. Dangerous, yes. But stupid and incompetent. These guys we'll be seeing in a few months aren't part of that half-ass crowd. They're an enemy to be respected." Meretti said.

"You're preaching to the choir, Sean. I recognize everything you just said. We may not be going after some inexperienced FARC rebel or a random drug dealer's security entourage this time, but don't fret just yet. Even though those guys from Defense Enterprises may be the closest thing to an elite army, they have weaknesses just like everyone else. To make it simple for you, if he bleeds, you can kill him."

"Wish it were that simple, Kevin. But something just bugs me about facing off against guys who may well have been U.S. soldiers five years earlier. I think about just how good these men may be and I hope we're ready. I hope _I'm_ ready to lead."

"If you've made it this far into the pre-deployment work-up without being switched out, believe me, you can lead. Besides, trust your comrades; they know how to fight and fight well. They're just as worried as you about this mission. And they will be looking at you to see how you handle things. This is gonna sound tough man, but you're gonna have to drop this doubting thing right fucking now. You are gonna be a source of motivation and guidance for your men. If they hear about you doubting your ability to lead how do you think they're going to feel? So my advice, stop bitchin', pick yourself up and get ready to do what you were trained to do. Besides, we got some Marines and fellow SEALs to embarrass in a few days."

"You're right. I need to let it go." Meretti admitted. "Thanks, man."

"And if it helps you any better I was in your exact same spot two years ago. Just shake off the bad. I don't wanna hear about any of this I can't do shit for a while. Hooyah?"

"Hooyah." Meretti admitted.

"Great. Now get back to your seat before Kaufman gets another opportunity to crack jokes about us."

"Rather get caught in a firefight than to be the brunt of one of his jokes."

Oneida laughed. "Don't we all."

--

There was a television show Moggs remembered watching years ago, where some person said _this has happened before, this will happen again_. He couldn't quite remember the name of the show, much less the actor who uttered the rather ominous saying. But Moggs did begin to notice how the saying applied to his current experience.

During his first few years in the teams the thing that really worried him was the notion of combat. Despite all the training and mental preparation there was still that little bit of lingering fear of all the things that could go wrong. However, after a few times out he found himself even more empowered to bear the burdens of battle, thus minimizing his fear of combat. But fear wasn't done with Moggs just yet.

Moggs's fear of battle may have subsided, but another was soon to take its place. His valor and skill as a warrior never went unnoticed, eventually earning him the rank of Lieutenant and a platoon level leadership position of Officer in Charge. While a leadership position was something to be proud of, the sudden realization that he was now responsible for the lives of fifteen men was rather frightening. Before the change, all Moggs had to worry about was being a part of the team. As officer in charge, the prospect of command evoked a new set of fears, with regards to whether or not he could bring his team back home in one piece. But believing in his abilities as well as the abilities of his men enabled Moggs to conquer those fears, allowing him to set his sites on the future.

The future had suddenly become the present and once again Moggs found himself in another fearful position. Now that he was a commander, Moggs found himself responsible for three SEAL platoons, which meant he was in charge of 48 men. Here he was, representing his men, SEAL Team Four and Naval Special Warfare Group Two. They were all counting on him to do things right. That was a lot of pressure for Moggs to deal with. But despite the burdensome responsibility he felt honored to deal with such pressure.

Upon arriving at SOCOM Headquarters at Macdill Air Force Base, Tampa, he found it impossible to keep cool. Going into the field was one thing, but talking to the head commanders of NAVSOC, ARMSOC, AFSOC, MARSOC, and COMSOC was a battle Moggs had been dreading for quite sometime. His biggest fear was making a fool of himself. He had to keep reminding himself of the fact that he was a SEAL, and in being a SEAL he had to recognize that positive thinking, in most cases, resulted in positive outcomes. Shaking off the negativity about everything that could go wrong, he started reviewing his operational plan in the waiting room right outside the meeting room.

The meeting room door opened and an older gentleman in a brown Navy Uniform appeared. Moggs stood straight up, saluting and apologizing for being caught off guard.

"Commander." COMSOC said, returning the salute. "Good to have you. How was your flight?"

"Excellent, sir." Moggs replied somewhat nervously. But when he noticed the SEAL pin that COMSOC was wearing, he felt somewhat at ease.

"Well, we're ready whenever you are, commander."

"Thank you, sir." Moggs replied, moving into the room first.

As Moggs entered the room he felt somewhat overwhelmed at the years of experience he saw sitting at the table in front of him. The commanders of all the respective Special Forces from the Marine Corps, Air Force, Army, and Navy. They were all generals or admirals. Trying to make a good impression Moggs made a general salute then shook hands with each of the seasoned warriors.

Grasping their hands he felt he was in the presence of renowned men; men who had done things on the battlefield that were nothing short of heroic and extraordinary. MARSOC, was a Congressional Medal of Honor recipient whereas as ARMSOC possessed a Silver Star with two repeat clusters. COMSOC and NAVSOC both had Navy Crosses, while AFSOC had earned the Air Force Cross twice. These men knew what bravery was all about and Moggs hoped he could one day live up to their potential.

"Commander Moggs, we're glad to have you in our presence." COMSOC announced as he took his seat.

"Thank you, sir." Moggs replied quickly.

"Now I'm not a man who likes to waste time discussing useless preliminaries." COMSOC began. "I trust that a commander of your stature is well versed in the methods of preparation and I feel there is no need to discuss them. As a result I will let you get right to the point Commander Moggs. You have the floor."

_Here we go_. Moggs stood up quickly and opened a folder that was sitting on the table in front of him. Inside, there were seven copies of his mission plan, which he quickly distributed to his superiors. He then queued up a powerpoint presentation to assist him in his delivery.

"Gentleman, as you already know a multination military effort, led by the United States, to rid Brazil of Defense Enterprises was an abysmal failure due to a very powerful EMP shield that has managed to defeat nearly everything in our arsenal with an electrical component.

"The set of papers I just distributed to you is outlining an operational plan focusing on prolonged reconnaissance and possible direct action, which are discussed briefly in the first two bullet points."

"Possible direct action, commander?" MARSOC asked.

"Yes sir, and I say this because as of right now our intelligence on Defense Enterprises is just over two years old. The only information we have is based on information gained about the company's actions prior to the expulsion of media agencies. Thus we will only be able to make an in-field assessment on the types of targets or fortifications to take out."

The Marine nodded for Moggs to continue.

_Great_. "I must also make it clear that the EMP shield that prevented our weapons from dislodging Defense Enterprises has also prevented us from gaining reliable satellite imagery. Sadly, we have almost no information as to the exact position of hostile fortifications, weapons platforms, or any other pieces of military equipment.

"Recognizing this I have made the choice to send three full platoons into Brazil to ID fortifications, enemy strength, weapons systems and hopefully the possible source of the EMP shield that has managed to prevent us from inflicting any damage against the enemy.

"If you would briefly take a look at the slide up here you will see a map with three red arrows, each arrow representing a point of insertion into Brazil. All insertions will be waterborne and will take place simultaneously. The platoons will insert at the locations the arrows are pointing to on the map, Macapa, Fortaleza and Vitoria. They will then be in country for a period of three months, making observations as they go.

"The second page of my outline describes the exact workings of each platoon. Each platoon will include sixteen men. The platoons will then proceed one hundred klicks inland and separate into two eight man teams. One half of the platoon will be led by an OIC while the other half will be led by AOIC. Each fireteam will head in either a northerly or southerly direction exiting the AO into one of the six countries bordering western Brazil.

"Platoon designations for the first one hundred klick trek inland are as followed. Specter, Phantom, and Ghost. Specter will insert into Macapa, Phantom will insert into Fortaleza and Ghost will insert into Vitoria.

"Once the platoons reach their one hundred klick mark they will then separate. The naming scheme remains the same, except the teams will have numerical designations following their call sign.

"On the slide you see now, I have outlined the AOs for each particular team. Specter One will investigate the area shaded in blue, which borders along Brazil's northern neighbors. When they are done with their operation they will then exit the area along the Rio Negro into southern Venezuela.

"Specter Two will be responsible for the AO marked in yellow. They will follow the Rio Negro for about fifty klicks and exit their AO into Colombia.

"Phantom One as well as Two will be responsible for the largest AO in Brazil. Phantom one's AO is marked in red and they will exit into Peru via the Rio Madeira. Phantom Two's AO is marked in green. They will exit their area through Bolivia via the Rio Madeira as well.

"Ghost One and Two will be responsible for the southern half of Brazil. Ghost One's AO is marked in Gray while Ghost Two's AO is marked in orange. Ghost one will exit through Paraguay and Ghost Two will exit through Argentina.

"One concern commander." ARMSOC began. "It's no secret that Brazil is known for its vast undiscovered and unforgiving jungle terrain. I see that your AO is quite large and I am curious to know as to how you plan on your men moving along at an expedient and thorough pace."

"Thanks for the question General. I recognize that it is virtually impossible to cover every inch of Brazilian territory especially in those thick jungle regions. As a result each particular platoon will move along a path best suited for its environment. Specter will be advised to move along the Amazon in order to stay on track. Now, if the jungle is as thick as you say it is sir, it is my best bet that our friends at Defense Enterprises are having just as much trouble navigating the jungle. Thus, I will say that my plan can change.

"Phantom and Ghost however will have a somewhat easier task since they only have to deal with light tropical forests or grasslands. However, I will advise my men to progress along the rivers to avoid getting disoriented if the vegetation gets too thick. Of course that will be up to their discretion in the field."

"What specific areas will you be observing?" The AFSOC asked.

"I'm glad you asked sir. Specter will be tasked with providing information on the cities of Macapa, Santarem, Manaus and Boa Vista.

"Phantom will be responsible for providing observations on Fortaleza, Teresina, Porto Velho, Rio Branco, and Cuiaba.

"But Ghost will be doing the most sightseeing having to observe Vitoria, Belo Horizonte, Rio de Janeiro, Sao Paulo, Curitaba, Brasilia, Goiania, and Campo Grande.

"Now I understand that providing reconnaissance on each of these locations may not be feasible. Realistically speaking, I only count on my men being able to observe about half of these locations within the three-month time frame.

"Have you worked out communications, Commander?" NAVSOC asked.

"That is something we are still trying to perfect Admiral. Once my men are inside the coverage area of the EMP shield they will be unable to transmit back to us. So as soon as they're in we won't be able to hear back from them until their three-month operation is over. However, the teams will be able to communicate with each other. But one concern I have is the enemy being able to tap in to these transmissions between the teams. As of right now we are debating on whether or not to adhere to strict radio silence throughout this operation in order to prevent our teams from being compromised.

"Commander Moggs." COMSOC stated. "I understand thoroughly the very difficult position you are in. This is probably going to be a mission unlike any the Special Forces community has ever faced. We have asked you to provide a detailed plan for us and as of right now we are confident that you are on the right track. But beyond the scope of orders Commander, _do you_ think that this is an operation that we should embark upon?"

"With all do respect Admiral, I would have to say no. But since all of us in this room are under orders from President Adler we're really left with no choice. Now the reason I say no should be apparent to all of you in this room. There is simply not enough intel on the enemy that makes me feel comfortable. I do however understand that in this line of work you hardly are comfortable forcing you to adapt."

"Excellent point Commander and I would be inclined to agree with you on holding back on this operation until we can gain further intelligence." COMSOC added.

"But on the other hand sir, there really is no way to get information on this new enemy unless we actually have boots on the ground. For some reason, Melencampe has the means to scramble our satellites and we witnessed what happened when we sent aircraft overhead. Simply put sir, our best technology and analysts have failed to provide us with reliable and up to date intelligence. With respect to the risks I do recognize that my men will be put in a much more precarious position than myself since they're the ones who are actually going in. But my men have stated that despite the circumstances they are more than willing to go in, see what they can find and report back to us."

"So I take it that you are willing to continue with this operation even though the intelligence you have can be considered obsolete?" COMSOC asked.

"Yes sir." Moggs said plainly.

"Well if there are two things I can count on Commander its your readiness and faith in your men. I take it you thoroughly understand the immense situation you are in and the subsequent difficulties involved. And in repaying your honesty I have to be quite candid myself in saying that all of us here are more than relieved to have a commander of your insight planning this operation.

"Now, it will probably take about a week of deliberation amongst the seven of us along with our subsequent staff to determine whether or not this operation is a GO. But members of our staff will remain in contact with you throughout this process to help you better tailor this operation. We still have to approve this operation, but based on your outline I feel rather comfortable, considering. Is there anything else that you want to add Commander?"

"It's been an honor to meet you, gentleman and I would like to thank you for your comments and advice. Thanks for your time." Moggs said rather quickly.

"Then this meeting is done with." COMSOC said standing up.

The other commanders stood up as well, prompting Moggs to do the same. He shook hands with them yet again as they exited the room. He sighed only when everyone left the room, an obvious sign of relief that this meeting went well.

"You know I was going to ask you to buy the beers on this go around." A familiar voice said. "But seeing how you look I'm buying. Don't worry though, I'll just run a tab."

"I take it you're in a good mood this morning." Moggs replied to Ellis's comment.

"I did." Ellis replied. "Just finished finalizing some of the details for your boys in Okinawa as well as working out some last minutes details for their adventures at Fort Polk."

"Glad to see that someone's actually taking some responsibility around here." Moggs said exiting the meeting room.

"Hey that's what friends are for." Ellis grinned. "So give me the lowdown on your meeting with COMSOC?"

"It was a little rough, but I think I made the right impression."

"Very descriptive I must say." Ellis said sarcastically. "I know you got more to say."

"Alright sorry, just a little nervous that's all. I got the idea that they're going to approve this operational plan either way. We spoke about the intelligence difficulties and how that might be a factor. But a part of me thinks I just wrote a check that my ass may not be able to cash."

"How do you mean?"

"Well Admiral Sykes asked for my honest opinion about whether or not we should proceed with this operation and I gave him both sides of the coin. But I leaned more towards a possible GO since I explained to him that the only way we're going to solve this intel problem is if we put boots on the ground."

"Big deal." Ellis replied. "You just gave them an honest, no bullshit assessment. And believe me, those seasoned warriors you just talked to are feeling the heat more than you are. After all, they're the ones who have to present your words to the joint chiefs who will further present this to SECDEF who then has to present the plan to President Adler. Don't place this all on yourself man. You're just one part of this equation and you can be certain those guys you just spoke to appreciate that outline you gave them. Just think of yourself as being part of a fireteam. Each man has his responsibility and each man is essential, regardless of rank."

"You took that line from Capers." Moggs laughed.

"Hey I was never a great orator." Ellis chuckled. "But c'mon buddy lets get some rounds."

"Where?"

"The officers club of course."

"Think they'll let you in?" Moggs asked half-jokingly.

"With this squid on their hands, they better."

"Always a heart for the fight."

"Damn right."

--

Melencampe was never taught to fight fair. But after he saw what happened to that small shantytown he wished he had a more worthy opponent to fight against. Only then would the fight be less one sided. These adversaries were not warriors by profession. They were warriors by circumstance and fought only with emotion, not with skill. Having a heart for the fight was great, but it meant absolutely nothing if you lacked the skill of a warrior. Of course Melencampe would be remiss to say he never fought with emotion before. If anything, most warriors would be lying to say they felt nothing in combat. Hatred after all was an emotion, an emotion that was the catalyst for many conflicts of old. And was it not emotion that had also led to unlikely victories on the battlefield. Morale was even based on emotion and was an integral part of maintaining the cohesion of any unit. So maybe emotion played a much bigger role in warfare than Melencampe initially thought.

Speaking of feelings, Melencampe felt nothing but frustration as he read through the battle damage assessment. No friendly casualties, excellent. Stolen weapons recovered, outstanding. All hostiles eliminated, great. No sign of resistance commander, horrible. Melencampe knew that most operations seldom went exactly as planned. But he was absolutely convinced he would find the commander. Not being able to find him left Melencampe with only one emotion, anger. That meant that someone lied to him and that someone was going to pay dearly.

Feeling the anger course through him, Melencampe threw down the assessment on his desk, exited his quarters and headed out of the Cathedral. A blast of hot air hit him as he marched outside doing nothing to calm his nerves. A few people noticed Melencampe's angry gait including one of his lieutenants.

"I hope you don't plan on driving, Colonel." The young major said.

"No Major." Not looking away. "Just plan on finding out why I was lied to."

"By whom?" The Major asked as he commandeered a jeep just outside the Palácio do Planalto.

"Our friend we captured a few days ago." Joining his subordinate.

"And to think we hadn't broken him already."

"Well, what he felt a few days ago is going to feel like heaven once I'm done with him."

"His interrogators practically took it out of him the last go around. Think he'll divulge anything more?"

"We're about to find out, Major." As the jeep came to a stop just outside the National Congress Building

Melencampe pushed open the doors to the old National Congress building and surprising the guards were when he entered. Noticing them, he returned their hasty salutes and continued towards a rusty door, continuing down some steps to a basement, a converted detention center. He then headed down a dark hallway lit by several rectangular ceiling lights, stopping at a storage room turned holding cell. A nearby soldier patrolling the hallway immediately noticed his superior bolting towards the holding cell. Quickly, he scrambled for his keychain ready to grab the right one when his commander asked. Walking up to his commander, he was still searching for the right key. Melencampe was about to lose his composure, but soon realized this young soldier wasn't the source of his problems. Maintaining his patience he thanked the soldier verbally and dismissed him with a crisp salute.

Upon entering the cell, Melencampe and the accompanying major were immediately greeted by a foul smell. From what they could gather it was obvious the prisoner had not bathed in many days. But since he had no access to a toilet the source of the smell was pretty obvious.

A naked man sat tied to a chair surrounded by dreary concrete walls. His head hung down, half hidden by the collisions of light and dark cast about the room from a small barred window. The prisoner showed signs of frequent abuse as cuts and bruises littered his body. How painful it must have been to endure the tortures he had. Sleep was his only solace.

After closing the door behind him, Melencampe and the major silently approached the prisoner. Stopping just short of the chair, Melencampe paused for a moment to consider his actions. He marched down here planning to slam the prisoner's face into the floor but refrained. There was a strong possibility that this man really had no idea whether or not his commander would be in that village. If that was the case, then what would beating this man accomplish? Anger had brought Melencampe to this very cell to do something horrible, not for the sake of obtaining information, but to release his rage.

Why rage? Was this emotion the sign of something much more sinister, the growth of an evil that would destroy him? And why stop at this moment? Evil things had happened before and evil things would continue to happen. What difference would a single act of mercy make in a world dark as this?

"You're not going to hit him are you?" The major asked, expecting the answer.

"No." Melencampe replied, staring at the prisoner's head. "I won't."

"You won't or you can't?"

Melencampe thought of reprimanding his subordinate for the interrogative but chose not to. He felt enough rage for today.

"He's already told us what he knows, major. No need to add to his misery."

"There's still a good chance he knows where the commander is, Colonel." The major reminded Melencampe.

"Yes and there's also a good chance he doesn't." Melencampe countered.

"I know you don't like doing this kind of thing, sir. But it has to be done. He knows something and we _have_ to get it out of him."

"And what more do you think he knows, major." Melencampe suddenly snapped. "He gave us the location of the weapons, the village, and not to mention giving up his own comrades. Even if he is hiding something from us, we probably have a better chance at finding the son of a bitch with our own guys."

The major looked back at his commander, waiting for him to calm down.

"If you don't want to go through with this Colonel I understand. But let me put it to you this way. Let's say you want to send out a six-man recon team to go look for his commander." Nodding to the prisoner. "They go out, find him, but get wrapped up in a fight in the process. Your men die. And what if you knew this bastard, sitting right here knew where his commander was all along but didn't tell us? This torture thing is not something any of us like to do, especially me. I've been on the other side and it doesn't feel good. But when an opportunity presents itself you have to take it."

"The business of trading lives."

"No choice we make in war is morally sound, Colonel. You told me that. It's all about choosing between the lesser of evils."

Melencampe walked towards the door. "You know what to do, Major."

"It's not your fault, Colonel. He got himself in this position." The major said in an attempt to console his commander.

The former Green Beret left the room without replying, trying to forgive himself for letting the prisoner experience yet another horrific interrogation. Cruel as interrogations were they still had their uses. Melencampe may have hated the prospect of interrogating and sometimes torturing another human being, but he was a pragmatist. And as a pragmatist he knew that interrogations were usually the most straightforward way to gain useful intelligence. He just didn't want to be around when they happened.

Closing the door, he motioned down the hallway. He was just about to exit the detention center when a gunshot echoed from the room. Melencampe reached for his sidearm and immediately headed back towards the room, where three guards were already waiting. Pushing his way past them he noticed his major standing over a slumped body on the floor.

"MAJOR!" Melencampe screamed. "WHAT HAPPENED HERE?!"

"He managed to get a hold of my sidearm and shot himself." The major replied quite plainly.

Slightly calmer but still angry Melencampe replied, "And how do I know you didn't shoot him."

"Colonel, I was here to interrogate him, not to kill him. I think I know as well as you that a corpse can't talk." Surprised at his commander's question. "I turned around for a moment and he lunged at me. We rolled to the floor, he got my weapon, and shot himself."

Turning to one of the guards, he asked. "Can either of you gentlemen validate this."

"Yes they can, Colonel!" The major replied sternly. "I asked one of them to assist me with the interrogation. There is no need to lambaste them, sir. It was my mistake."

"No Major, it was _our _mistake." Melencampe relented. "None of us bothered to check if he was bound to the chair correctly. My apologies Major."

"No worries sir." The major replied motioning towards the door. He motioned to the three guards in the room to follow him, leaving Melencampe to stare at the bloody head resting on the floor.

_What did you know?_ There were two likely reasons for why this man killed himself. Either he was so beaten down that he could no longer take another torturous interrogation or he knew too much. Melencampe wanted to believe the latter, but in all likelihood it was probably the former.

On the floor was a man, pushed to the point of suicide, a man whose name Melencampe did not know. How sad to reach an end like this. Melencampe wondered what kind of person this man was before that devastating civil war, before Defense Enterprises took over, before being caught, interrogated and tortured. Farmer, fisherman, father, brother, husband?

Melencampe looked away from the body and started to question his mission. No one ordered him to go to this country and hold it's people hostage. He was a man who came here on his own accord, an idealist in a sense. But now it seemed like he was moving further and further away from his original intentions. What Melencampe wanted to do was teach the world a lesson, show them what respecting the soldier really entailed. The true enemies were the rich and powerful, not the poor, downtrodden victims of a nasty civil war. Yet, here he was looking at the corpse of a man he could have saved, a man he could have let go. Sadly, however, the demons of war got the best of him.

It soon became apparent to Melencampe that this was not a matter of right, but a matter of war. For in war there were no sharp distinctions between right and wrong, only bullets and bodies. Was this what he wanted? No, he wanted justice for soldiers and nothing more. He wanted the ungrateful to pay and the greedy to rot.

But what good was vengeance if it was dragging the wrong people into the fray? Why hadn't Melencampe asked some of these people to join his cause? Was he too proud to admit that maybe this once simple lot had grievances as well? These were all questions in which the answer was no longer of use. It no longer mattered what he did; he was already a monster. He could no longer rely on forgiveness he could only be a soldier. And if that meant sacrificing his humanity, his soul, then that was unfortunate.

Had some of his men also sacrificed their souls for the sake of vengeance? The thought was certainly sickening, but what bothered him even more was the possibility that he was leading his men to a dead. So many faithful warriors, so many men who actually believed in his words, or at least wanted to. To not give them reason to be here would be the greatest sin he believed he could commit. Melencampe knew he would go to hell for what he had done, assuming of course, that there was a hell. But if he failed his men, then hell would be quite merciful. _Fight not with monsters, lest you become a monster_.


	5. Chapter 4: Martyrs and Madmen

Chapter 4

Martyrs and Madmen

Futenma was the last place Oneida expected to find a decent bar, much less a decent restaurant. But thanks to a kind Marine from the nearby MCAS, Oneida was introduced to a nice hole in the wall known as the Rising Sun. Several men from his platoon were delighted to learn that the place was also a bar, a teppanyaki bar to be exact. Teppanyaki was a Japanese word that referred to anything cooked on a teppan. At first, Oneida had no idea what the hell a teppan was, but Meretti explained to him that a teppan was the grill most often found in Japanese steakhouses.

While the rest of the team attempted to flirt with some of the local women, Oneida, Brigham and Meretti remained at their table, sipping beers and enjoying the rest of their food.

"Wonder if the saki's any good?" Meretti asked.

"What?" Oneida asked. "Those two beers you downed not good enough?"

"This piss water?" Meretti said somewhat bluntly. "This ain't Budweiser. It'll take 10 of these things to put me down."

"Yeah, I've been waiting for the buzz for the last hour myself." Brigham added.

"So why not just order a round of saki then?" Meretti repressed

"'Cause I'm not as adventurous as you, Sean." Brigham replied. "Besides, the steak and wasabi was more than enough."

"Well, Kevin looks like me and you will be splitting the bill."

Oneida was about to protest, but by the time he opened his mouth, Meretti had already placed an order for some shot glasses and a bottle of saki. "Does he ever listen?" Oneida groaned.

"Not when alcohol's involved." Brigham chuckled.

Meretti started pouring his comrades some drinks.

"Christ Sean!" Oneida laughed. "Can you wait?"

"I heard its good stuff." Meretti replied. "Now c'mon you two, get ready for some shots."

Oneida grabbed the small glass. "The only time I let this fool tell me what to do."

"And to who or what do we drink?" Brigham asked.

"To the many days of thousand yard stares." Meretti smiled.

"HOOYAH!" The three of them cheered just before quickly downing their drinks.

"Ohhh, shittt!" Meretti grimaced slamming his glass on the table. "That's good."

"And I thought tequila was strong." Oneida coughed.

"God damned virgins." Brigham laughed. "That was nothing."

"Don't bullshit a bullshitter, Bill. You know that was powerful."

"Say what you may Kevin. I'm just gonna let the taste marinate for a while."

"You say so." Oneida replied rather unbelievingly. "So, it's welcome to the jungle in a few days. Wonder what kinda neat stuff Ellis has thought up for us this time."

Brigham chuckled. "Oh, he's gonna run us through the gauntlet again, like when we did that joint training exercise with the Aussies down at Canugra."

"That was fun." Meretti smirked. "Think these Marines are gonna cut us any slack?"

"Not a chance in hell, gentleman." Brigham noted. "I wouldn't expect any less."

"One things for sure. We're gonna need to learn as much as we can, 'cause once we're in Brazil, we'll be learning lessons with real bullets. Which reminds me of something that's been on my mind for a while." Oneida mused.

"Shoot." Meretti replied.

"I kinda remember how Defense Enterprises got to be such a prosperous company, but never really bothered to connect the dots."

"Me either." Brigham added. "But I think it had something to do with Pakistan and India going hot about fifteen something odd years ago."

"Something about Musharaff getting knocked off and some hardline general taking over. India gets all anxious and a few unwarranted incursions into Kashmir later; you get nuclear war." Meretti summarized.

"Okay now it's coming back to me. Defense Enterprises was asked by the UN to clean up the mess. Their first big contract if I remember correctly." Oneida recalled.

"Apparently, the UN paid them four billion just to go in and secure a foothold for peacekeeping and relief forces. Not bad for a small force of contractors."

"And what was even more surprising was the fact that the UN simply didn't just get an amalgamation of PMCs such as Blackwater, DynCorp, and some others." Brigham pointed out.

"It's simple Chief. If the UN were going to ask all those companies at once, the price tag would be in excess of about ten billion. I mean it was unfortunate that such companies were asking for extravagant sums of money, considering that their mission was simply peacekeeping and security. Besides, the UN did not view companies like Blackwater, very favorably. But here comes this company named Defense Enterprises who seems to depart from all the nonsense that the other companies got involved in." Meretti explained.

"I guess Melencampe had a way with words. He was the one established that contract with the UN in the first place. Not even the companies president could have done what he did."

"Who was the Defense Enterprises President at that time?" Oneida asked.

"Former KSK operator Hans Farber, if I remember correctly. Melencampe was the Chief Military Advisor." Brigham added.

"Seems like he did one hell'uva job securing a four billion dollar contract." Oneida said.

"It does when you got a big ass mess to clean up."

"Okay, so after they do their job in India, what else?" Oneida asked.

"The U.S. sought their help in securing the Afghanistan-Pakistan border regions. Besides, with no governments in either India or Pakistan, the area was basically a safe-haven for any Al-Qaeda terrorist. All you had to do was walk right across the border into either country." Meretti explained.

Oneida smirked. "Shit, Al Qaeda still did it when Pakistan was a country. Don't see how it's any different."

"You know what I mean. Besides they don' t have the Pakistani military to worry about."

Brigham laughed out loud. "Sorry to burst your bubble Sean, but Pakistan's military was never that good to begin with. They only contributed to this war on terrorism by announcing they were coming with all those soldiers crossing the border. Damn terrorists could see 'em coming from a mile away. Us here, American fighting men and women, were doing all the work. Not them."

"Not even just a little bit, Bill?" Oneida teased.

"If that qualifies as letting the bad guys slip outta your hands, then yes, they contributed greatly."

"Wasn't there someone else who contracted them too?" Oneida asked returning to the topic.

"Yeah, the Chinese. Their boys needed some help making sure their border with India was okay. Besides, they had that refugee problem with the Indians. Wanted to make sure no trouble abounded." Meretti told him.

"And lemme guess, Melencampe secured both contracts." Brigham guessed.

"Correct for two hundred, buddy." Meretti grinned.

"So how much was the grand total, or rather, net profit?"

Meretti sighed heavily. "I dunno, probably, at least fourteen billion. Just over it. Somewhere around that number."

"No wonder Melencampe eventually took over the company." Brigham reasoned.

"But things really got interesting just after Defense Enterprises finished in South Asia. They set out buying two other small companies with all that money they made, along with a lot of vehicles and helicopters."

"Yeah. One company… Damn… Forgot the name… Well anyway, it was a company who produced valuable life saving equipment for soldiers. Funny, how it morphed into something that worked on taking life rather than saving it." Oneida recalled.

"I remember that company too. Created a full, flexible outer shell to stop bullets or shrapnel in its tracks. FlexEx I think it was called. One of those exoskeleton things people were working on." Brigham said.

"Can't remember the company name either, but I remember exactly what you were talking about. Never really got a chance to try the FlexEx. Heard it was just a little too cumbersome. Besides, us here SEALs are too damn quick to get shot anyway." Meretti added.

"Got that right." Oneida took a quick sip of some saki.

"So what was the other company they bought out?" Brigham asked.

"Some small optics company who was developing some pretty neat sighting systems for guns. Like all in one, thermal and night vision scopes. Not that other gun manufacturers hadn't done so. They just took it to another level, making such sighting systems more compact and easier to lug around." Oneida explained.

"So after South Asia and buying all these companies, Defense Enterprises becomes not just a force of contractors, but a company that provides warfighting tech to the world's armed forces." Brigham summed it up. "Where was Melencampe during all this?"

"Busy recruiting, mainly among the U.S. and U.K. armed forces." Meretti answered. "He was quite good at it actually. And besides, who would want to tell the guy who caught Bin Laden no? I mean that was part of it at least. You also have to take into account that word of how much Defense Enterprises was paying got around pretty quickly. Defense Enterprises was paying a hell'uva lot better than what their governments were paying them."

"And to think no one was getting a little suspicious of all these company takeovers and increases in armed contractors. Didn't Blackwater eventually merge with them?" Oneida asked.

"I think so, which I think, dramatically added to their force of contractors. And to make a long story shot, Defense Enterprises became the largest PMC ever assembled." Meretti explained.

"And not a nation was getting jealous." Brigham stated. "I would've thought that our government would've gotten a little anxious."

"Oh, I bet you someone did. But hey, if this company is making your foreign military engagements much easier and giving your troops some pretty neat toys, would you argue with 'em?" Meretti reasoned. "The most fine example of a military industrial complex my friend. Eisenhower was right. In exchange for bolstering their military power, nations simply didn't ask those probing questions that would have revealed Melencampe's intentions."

"Then the situation in Brazil happens and who do you call?" Brigham stated rhetorically.

"And Melencampe becomes the company's CEO when Brazil starts its civil war." Oneida added.

"But one thing that gets me, is how in the hell was Melencampe able to get his whole company to jump on board with his little plan."

"Have no idea." Oneida attempted to answer. "I mean I've heard conspiracy theory nuts saying they were all brainwashed. But I just think Melencampe had a way with words. After all, when you have enough manpower to rival the U.S. military you might think you can do the impossible. Melencampe probably convinced them that they now had the means to get the world to listen to them; soldiers that is."

"Besides, I heard one big reason why many men decided to join PMCs is because they simply want better pay, greater benefits, for doing a job that is obviously dangerous." Brigham added.

"Not to mention, politicians meddling in how you do business. To be honest with you I can see why all those men jumped on board with Defense Enterprises." Meretti offered. "Still though, it seems a bit of a stretch to me that Melencampe could simply get those many men to follow him."

"I don't think so." Brigham began. "I mean like Kevin said here, when you got enough man power, and not to mention the technology that is equal to, if not better, than what our boys use, you sorta have a little less to fear. Besides, this is a company, not a nation, which rules out the possibility of nuclear warfare. So basically they're safe. Plus, they already knew the kind of technology that was going to be used against them. To put it simply, as it relates to Melencampe getting all those men to side with them, he simply appealed to their grievances. And when he addressed those grievances, he assured them that what they were about to do would change the world. But the main assurance was the fact that they would be protected from all forms of aggression."

"A big ass leap of faith if you ask me." Oneida commented.

"Well after that EMP shield stopped a coalition attack altogether, I guess the faith in Melencampe's cause became solidified." Meretti said.

"So that's who were fighting against." Oneida said. "A bunch of highly trained and motivated ideologues, some of which are fellow warriors."

"More like traitors if you ask me. But enough of this small talk. Its damn near twelve thirty."

"Mama set your curfew?" Brigham teased.

"Say what you want gentlemen but I think it best we gather the team and head on back to the Air Station. Ellis is gonna really hurt us tomorrow." Meretti advised.

Brigham looked at Oneida and Oneida back at Brigham. "What?" Brigham asked. "He's you XO. I suggest you listen to him."

"You're right." Oneida laughed standing up to stretch. "Let's go."

"And I actually tell him what to do this time." Meretti grinned.

"Don't get used to it." Oneida reminded him.

"Won't make much of a difference once Ellis is done with us."

Oneida made his way to door, gathering his platoon. "Don't remind me."

--

The flight back to Norfolk was shorter than Moggs expected, not that he really kept track of how long the flight took. He was asleep anyways. Upon landing at Norfolk Naval Air Station, Moggs was whisked off to a waiting SH-60 that at last delivered him back to his home base at Little Creek Naval Amphibious Base. But on this occasion instead of stopping back at his office like he usually did, Moggs headed straight home.

When he pulled up to his driveway his daughters were already rushing out the door to greet him. His wife however, was nowhere to be found. Not that he felt offended. She was probably just waiting for him to greet her. Six years earlier and he would have been waiting for her to greet him. _How things change._

"DADDY!" One of his daughters yelled out.

"Did you get to see Mickey Mouse?" The other asked.

"No baby." Picking up his youngest. "Daddy was too busy to meet Mickey this time. But Jesus you're getting bigger."

"Guess what day Saturday is, Daddy?" His oldest daughter asked with a toothy grin.

"Um… Don't tell me." Walking towards the front door. "Easter?" Grinning broadly.

"Daddy!" The little girl said with a hint of playful annoyance.

"Father's day." Moggs kept teasing her. He really knew she was alluding to her birthday. If he only knew what to get her.

"It's my birthday!" She exclaimed.

Opening the door Moggs asked. "And how old are going to be young lady?"

"SIX!" The brown skinned girl cheered.

Putting his youngest daughter down and squatting down to meet his oldest. "Well, promise Daddy you won't grow up too fast." Kissing her on the forehead. "Okay?"

"I promise." Hugging her father, before running off to join her younger sister.

"So, how was Tampa?" A familiar voice asked.

Moggs stood up greet his wife, Alexandra, who was wiping her hands with a dishtowel from the kitchen. She was still quite beautiful and for an instant Moggs felt the pains of remorse for letting a woman such as his wife bear the burdens she did.

Moggs walked into the kitchen stopping at the table. "Well the weather was warm."

"Isn't it always." She said rather friendlier than usual, surprising Moggs somewhat. Not that that was a bad thing. If she was happy then so was he. "So is that all, or is the rest classified?" Laughing a little.

"It is." Telling a half-truth. "But there really isn't much else I did down there, except sleep and hang out with Ellis."

"This wouldn't happen to have anything to do with all that foolishness in Brazil would it?" Alexandra asked.

_Damn this woman is smart_. "I'll let you figure that our for yourself." Smiling slyly.

"I guess I'll take that as a maybe." Joining her husband at the table, a signal for him to sit down as well. "So you have any idea what to get Jackie?"

"I was hoping you would have the answer to that question." Moggs replied.

"Well, have you ever thought of asking her?" His wife chided.

"That would be a good idea wouldn't it?" Admitting that his wife made a good point.

"And you will be here for her birthday won't you?"

Moggs was dreading this question on the whole ride home. And his wife looked at him, expecting an answer she didn't want to hear. It was painful to be reminded of how many times he had ended up in this kind of situation before. Missing birthday parties and an anniversary once had done a lot of bad things to his marriage. Even though the current question revolved around whether or not he would be around for his daughter's birthday, he knew it would hurt his wife if couldn't make it.

"I will try my absolute hardest… No." He hesitated. "I will find someone to fill in for me this Saturday. There are plenty of guys who know what we're working on and can do some of the things I'm otherwise responsible for."

"I'm counting on you baby." Alexandra replied with genuine concern in her voice. "It would really mean a lot to her if you actually stayed. Because sooner or later she will understand what loneliness actually is. Please don't take innocence away from her."

She was right. His daughter was getting older and as a result, gradually more perceptive. He always told himself, and so did his men and teammates, that being a father was more important than anything else. However, they also told him that the trying obligations to his country were also important, and sometimes, regrettably more important than family. But for this moment, this one birthday, Moggs wanted to show he was a family man. He wanted to show his daughter that he would be there for her, not just in celebration but also for the rest of her life.

Moggs leaned forward and put his hand on his wife's. "I _will_ be here for this one, I promise. And by the end of this year, you, Jackie and Sarah will no longer have to go through what I've put you all through for the last thirteen years. You have been one of the strongest women I've ever met, simply because you knew what you were getting into when you married me. And let me tell you, being in some faraway country, cold, hungry, in the dark, surrounded by people who wanted to kill me was pure hell. You know I've thought about you and the girls every time I went out there."

"I know you have baby." His wife replied. "But even when you stopped going out there, you were still away from here. You have to promise me that you are absolutely retiring from the Navy after whatever you're planning or doing is done. Remember, we are a family and we're supposed to stay together as much as possible. You told me that."

_And broke my own rules_, Moggs didn't say. "I did say that and this time I'm actually going to practice what I preach. I just need you and the girls to stick with me this time, and remind me of my obligations to this family first of all. But I also need you guys to keep holding on to me for these last twelve months of my military career. Now I'm not making a promise that this will all be easy baby. But I am damn well gonna try to make this work, to make us…" Kissing his wife on the forehead and embracing her. "A family."

She smiled back at him, a genuine smile, the kind of smile Moggs hadn't seen for a while. He didn't want to let go of her, not in this moment and not ever. For moments such as these were quite rare and the possibility of making them more frequent would be quite a gift to behold.

"Now." Loosening his arms from around her. "What does this girl want for her birthday?"

"A pony. Honest to God." Jennifer laughed.

"Yeah." Moggs scoffed in response. "First that and then she'll be asking for a Corvette."

"Well we have a few more years to wait before she hits those pubescent years." His wife replied. "But, now that you mentioned it, she really would like a dog."

"And I know just who to get one from." Moggs explained. "A guy I know from SP, who helps train guards dogs for us at the base. Helps train the little bastards when their pups. And believe me, these guys are housebroken pretty early."

"So you're telling me that they won't leave the toilet seat up like some men I know?"

Moggs laughed at the joke. "Well if this dog can even use a toilet, then we're taking this dog on tour. Shit, I won't have to work ever again."

Jennifer had a laugh at that. "Wishful thinking baby."

"Guess so." Moggs said. "Now where did those girls of mine run off to?"

Moggs sauntered out of the kitchen into the living room where both of his daughters were sitting in front of the television watching some Nickelodeon program. Meanwhile, his wife watched him with genuine admiration, something she hadn't felt in a while either. Here was a man that had put her through such an emotional roller coaster. But he was a man that she still loved, her husband and the father of her children. She really believed that he was coming around this time; she accepted his promises to make things work. And there was sincerity to his words, a strong conviction in his voice. Her husband was not a man who lied. He may have broken some promises along the way and she hated him for that. But deep down inside, she knew breaking those promises hurt him immensely as well. Jennifer could only imagine just how difficult it was for Moggs to serve his country and be a husband and father at the same time. He was a martyr in his own right, having to face the worst of the world's problems at the expense of putting familial responsibilities on hold. No man should have had to go through such a journey, she thought, but her husband did. And so did the other men he served with, the men he would send in to battle. That was something she felt pride in, for herself and for her husband.

Meanwhile Moggs was playing with his daughters and really enjoying the moment. He always heard that children would grow up really fast and before he knew it both of his little girls would be going off to college. The _little_ years as he referred to them would not last much longer and he wanted to enjoy the last of them. Because he was certain, that once they became adolescents they would probably never be home, make him want to pull his hair out and drive him nuts. But for that he was ready.

He glanced at his wife for a moment, sitting at the kitchen table, reading a magazine. Unaware that she was being watched, Moggs wondered what she saw in him and why she had stuck with him for all these years. Moggs always heard stories from his men and teammates that marriages to SEALs rarely worked. Did the fact that his marriage _still_ worked make him lucky or did it make him blessed. A number of his comrades, ironically enough, chose the word blessed. Even the ones who didn't really believe in the working of some higher power reminded him that he was different and maybe that was it. Maybe it was a difference that highlighted his strong optimism and his ability to balance a number of sacrifices. But none of those qualities would have meant a thing if it was not for the strength of his wife. She was a martyr he believed, for putting up with a man she could have rightfully abandoned and for raising _their_ daughters single-handedly much of the time. It must have worried her sick when he was in Iraq as thousands of families were being devastated by the losses of sons, fathers, husbands, mothers, and even daughters. How she maintained during those tumultuous years was nothing short of a miracle to Moggs. He was truly a blessed man he believed and to leave this woman now, would have made his life meaningless.

--

Years ago, he would actually have given his life for the crown, when he would have selflessly served his country without hesitation. Yet for his duty, he was rewarded with abandonment. He had done his duty in a war that was very much unpopular in England, Scotland and Ireland. The whole British Commonwealth just never understood the sacrifices he and his men were making. At least the people didn't. The politicians actually did though. But even their opinions with regards to the Army were eventually swayed by public outcries against the war. Oh so lacking they were in spine. If only they had stood up to those ungrateful souls who had cursed the defenders of the crown.

Though the events that led to his downfall occurred long ago, they were still fresh in his mind. The shame and embarrassment he endured during those times were so great that he could never forgive those who destroyed him. They sullied his reputation and made the world hate him all because he was doing what he was ordered to do. Did anyone bother to ask what _really_ happened on the January day in Basra?

The shamed hero could still feel the heat of the burning Range Rover hulks. He could still see the charred bodies of some of his bravest men, rotting away on the dusty Iraqi streets. He could still feel the anger that coursed through his veins as he heard the cheers of insurgents as they ran away from the battlefield, like cowards. But they paid for those transgressions and paid for them dearly.

Some called it a mission of vengeance while others called it a wanton outburst of blind rage. But this soldier didn't care. All he knew was that those insurgents should have thought twice about attacking his comrades on that narrow Basra road. Yes, the innocent should never have had to pay for the sins of the not so innocent. But war gave him an excuse to do the things he did.

He remembered those women he took dignity from and heard the cries of their brave men as they helplessly watched, unable to save them. He remembered how those helpless men, as they watched their wives, mothers, sisters, and daughters being robbed of their souls, were forced to divulge the information that sealed their fates. He placed no blame on his soul for what happened to those women. It was fault of their husbands, brothers, and sons, who at first refused to admit their wrongdoing. If only they had admitted their sins then they would have preserved the dignity of _their_ women.

And how was he rewarded for his duty to King and Country? With an honorable discharge, that had arrived much too early, at a point when he was truly beginning to embody the _Espirit du Corps_ of the elite Special Air Service. But the discharge had robbed him of all the camaraderie and glory of the warrior. The only reason they called it an honorable discharge was because they could not prove that what he had done that night in Basra was a crime. They had no proof of what had happened to those men and women. But due to mounting cries from what he called the heartless public, his country's government was left with no other option but to use him as a scapegoat. They cut him loose to save their own skin, he believed. But this chicken was soon to come home to roost.

Captain Turner Hall, for he still believed he was a captain, regarded his responsibilities with the utmost care. He was the element of fear that would break these people and force them into submission. A number of tools were at Hall's disposal, namely the soldiers who he was in charge of; men who made their comrades tremble. They were a group separate from the soldiers that were usually sent into battle. These men were a unique breed of warrior, ones who concentrated on battle and nothing else. Warfare was their haven and destruction was their gift. Seeking neither peace nor vengeance, they engaged their adversaries with cold indifference.

Their faces were an abysmal black, made of metal, and adorned by a set of opaque red eyes that echoed the wrath of demons. A grayish material covered their bodies, making them more machine than man. Such a mechanical guise voided any traces of humanity. Their gait and stance reminded one of hunters, hunters of men. Some even said they lacked a soul. But Hall believed each of them possessed remnants of angry souls, the raging spirits of all those men he had lost. Avenged those men would be and through these warriors, vengeance they would exact.

But now was one of those moments when Hall's actions were not guided by the whims of vengeance. Rather, they were led by the controls of planning and circumspection. Hall admitted that vengeance could get the best of him and even clouded his judgment at times, but he was an expert at unconventional warfare and he was expected to live up to such a lofty reputation. For even his enemies regarded him as a force to be reckoned with. Some even believed that he was psychologically unstable. But regardless of his sanity he was known as a soldier who exhibited an admirable degree of professionalism that was matched by few, and exceeded by none.

Putting his professionalism to work, the Scottish warrior, addressed eight of his men before a mission into the outskirts of Brasilia. They stood half masked in darkness just outside the old Palácio da Justiça building. Hall suppressed a smile of pride as he observed their discipline. They were the epitome of soldiers, men who when given orders would not question them, men who always outdid themselves in the way of duty and loyalty to one another. But most importantly they were ruthless and could kill without ever mourning the passing of their victims. That was a quality Hall rarely found in a soldier and these men were not lacking in the methods of taking life.

"Gentleman." Hall began in a thick Scottish accent. "Though I am more than certain that you will succeed in wiping these pests from our sights, I advise you to stick to the skills you have gained in countless engagements. For we never regress, but improve instead.

"As for the operational side of things you have heard the details many times over. But to be sure that you all are clear I will run through the points of this mission one more time. You will be raiding a building that is suspected of being a transition point for resistance fighters entering this city from the outside. As of right now, we have no idea what exactly is in that dilapidated structure. However, as intelligence estimates, it could lead us directly towards one of their many bases of operation.

"The area of Brasilia we are entering was once calm and relatively passive. But however, in the last few months, we have seen a steady increase of casualties within the vicinity. The likelihood of this neighborhood being inhabited by hostiles is very high. Keep your eyes open, but I seriously doubt they'll be much of a challenge for you.

"Air support will be on call via UAVs. You don't have to use it, but we will have people on standby back here to launch some hellfires if you need them. Are there any questions?"

Hall knew his men wouldn't reply. They had been through the briefing three times, more than enough to memorize the details. Only stares met his eyes in return. Satisfied, he dismissed the warriors, wishing them luck as they made their way towards a waiting helicopter in the center of the Praça dos Três Poderes.

"Think they'll find anything?" Melencampe asked walking out of the Palácio.

"I think so." Hall replied casually. "After all, those cyphers we've put up noticed a large amount of activity over the last few days."

"I'm inclined to agree with you. We should come up with something after all this is over." Melencampe took a seat.

"So you think our friends in the outside world have something in the works?" Hall asked his commander.

"I wouldn't put it past them." Melencampe admitted. "I'm guessing my former country will send in someone to do some recon first."

"And how do you think they'll get in without getting detected?" Hall asked somewhat overconfident.

"Trust me Hall." Melencampe looked Hall in the eyes. "It is possible to get into Brazil without being detected and if my guess is correct SEALs will probably be the first men here. Don't know where'd exactly they'd go but they will be here eventually."

"It sounds like you're prophesying." Hall chuckled.

"Maybe." Melecampe admitted. "Buts it's going to take more than a platoon of sixteen men to bring this movement down. Besides I have faith that those men you just sent in to that deserted section of Brasilia are more than a match for even America's brightest."

"Well, we did manage to stop their most powerful weapon systems, sir. But with all due respect the deadliest weapon in anyone's arsenal is the soldier, especially men like you and me. Never count out the unconventional warrior Colonel. These aren't ordinary soldiers and they think in ways that are creative and deadly. Of course, me and you both know this and it shouldn't be a revelation to any of us."

"Has me worried somewhat for the regulars we have." Melencampe admitted. "They're good, but not as good as your guys are and certainly not as good as the Operators who will probably come after us."

"Don't think they'll come after us just yet Colonel." Hall said. "Besides, we both know that before any shooting starts they're going to need intelligence. The last thing they want to do is give away their position, thus jeopardizing all the valuable information they gain. Don't worry about anybody infiltrating this AO just yet. If anything, it's the resistance we should be more worried about."

"You're right." Melencampe agreed. "If they're here already then I doubt their priorities are to kill us. I just hope they aren't transmitting any info back to their superiors."

"I doubt it, that is of course if that EMP shield above us is still holding up. Any soldiers that are here can talk to each other inside the shield, but can't transmit out. Plus, any satellites our friends have, scramble out whenever they fly over." Hall explained. "We've backed our friends into a very tight corner this time. And it's going to be hell to pay for them to get out of it."

"Guess I need to have more faith." Melencampe chuckled.

"Eh, you shouldn't feel bad." Hall stood up. "Besides, it's the job of a leader to worry about everything. If you weren't then I'd feel a little unassured, if there is such a word.' He grinned.

"I'm not a writer, Hall." Melencampe smiled. "Just a soldier."

"Aren't we all?"


	6. Chapter 5: Elusive

Chapter 5

Elusive

Camp Gonsalves, located in the northern area of Okinawa, a large 80 square kilometer training area used by the U.S. Marine Corps. Named after World War Two Medal of Honor recipient Harold Gonsalves, a marine killed in the Okinawa campaign, later to become the Jungle Warfare Training Center (JWTC), and garnered a reputation for creating some of the best jungle warriors. Established in 1958, Camp Gonsalves began to attract serious attention during the Vietnam War, thus developing a reputation for creating some of the best jungle warriors the world had ever seen. Since those years, Camp Gonsalves was used jointly by numerous elements of the U.S. military and even parts of the Japanese Self-Defense Forces.

For the last few days, the JWTC was busier than usual. In fact, the Corps stated it was one of the largest training exercises the JWTC had embarked upon within the last 67 years. There was so much activity in fact, that the Chinese and North Koreans began inquiring about the Americans' true intentions. The press even caught whiff of the story and reported on this rather out-of-the-blue development. Fortunately, the Corps was well prepared for the media's gathering storm and simply stated that this was a new training initiative that had no hostile intentions. Despite this casual explanation the constant buzzing of helicopters, incoming aircraft, and an endless cacophony of marching cadences was proof that something was afoot.

Speaking of intense activity, one group of sailors was starting to wear its effects. Over the duration of three days, Meretti and his team had evaded countless Marine search teams and observed several installations all without being spotted. During this time, the JG led his men through a torturous journey of physical endurance. Their bodies were being pushed to the limits and beyond. Fatigue, both mental and physical, was slowly getting the best of them, making the simplest of tasks ever so difficult. Walking, standing, and even keeping their eyes open were beginning to become quite troublesome endeavors. The hostility of the jungle only served to augment their pain. They sifted through sluggish mud, wadded in murky waters, and pushed their way through thick jungle growth. And sitting around during reconnaissance wasn't alleviating their problems either. They would find themselves getting comfortable, eventually ending up on the threshold that existed between sleep and consciousness. Once they felt the sleep's tempting grasp tugging on their eyelids, they would attempt to get up, only to feel their muscles scream with agony. Shifts were put in place to counter fatigue's unbounded onslaught, but such efforts were struggling at best.

A part of Meretti regretted drinking that saki a few days ago. Not only did he drink too much, for he rarely did, he also managed a measly two hours of sleep and was thrust into the fray, bright and early one cool April morning. But knowing Ellis, the events of the last few days was probably part of some magnificent scheme the sadistic training cadre had thought up. Meretti had a laugh at the thought further reasoning that the trip to the teppanyaki bar was a way of getting he and his men off track, a way of fouling up their impeccable sense of readiness. The drowsy sailor was absolutely convinced that Ellis planned on him and his men consuming a modest sum of alcohol knowing well that they would be completely out of sync when roused from their relaxed stupor by flashbangs and an endless cacophony of gunfire. _Oh how the son of a bitch brought back memories of Hell Week's infant moments. Fatten us up and feed us to the dogs, exactly what they did to us the night before Hell Week. Tell us to eat as much pizza as we can and have a decent serving of beer, then toss in a flashbang as soon as you fall asleep, thrusting you right into the oblivion of confusion for the next five days._ Meretti wanted to murder the sick bastard who thought of such a cruel way to train a warrior. _Oh well Sean, the hell you gonna do about it?_

Wearing a ghillie was not the best feeling in the world. It was cumbersome, heavy, and hot. But because it did a great job at hiding people, Meretti was willing to experience some degree of discomfort. Besides, his sniper was the one who really had it made. Not only did _he_ have to wear the suit, he also had to run, dive, and crawl around with it, out in the open, hoping that through it all he remained invisible. Only thing Meretti had to do was remain hidden in the jungle brush and call out threats. But it was better this way. His sniper was much better suited for the required task.

Meretti divided his fireteam into three groups. The first group, consisting of four sailors was tasked with overwatch. They kept their eyes on the small outpost in the clearing while remaining hidden in the nearby jungle brush. Their job was to make sure their sniper and fellow teammate kept clear of trouble by calling out the locations of the marines playing the bad guys. All four sailors settled at each of the four cardinal directions in an attempt to view the small outpost from every possible angle. And it just so happened that the sailors watching from those spots had callsigns corresponding to the Greek Anemoi, also known as the wind gods. A neat little spin that Meretti put on this mission. Meanwhile, the group of three that Meretti was leading remained together. The responsibility of this group was much the same as the first one, provide overwatch and remind their sniper of possible threats. But Meretti's small group was also responsible for ditching their ghillies, running out of the jungle and coming to the sniper's aid, if he found himself in a compromising position.

The sniper, a young petty officer who his teammates simply referred to as Roberts, had the most difficult job of all. He had to traverse nearly fifty meters of three foot high grass in a ghillie, sneak into a tent to steal a piece of paper, sneak out the tent and crawl fifty meters back to the safety of the jungle brush. All of these things of course had to be done while avoiding the nine marines that patrolled the area. But this was not the first time Roberts had done this kind of thing and that gave Meretti an added sense of assurance. Despite the fact that Roberts was excellent at what he did, Meretti was still holding his breath for the fellow sailor. All it took was one wrong move for everything to go downhill. Still, however, Meretti kept reminding himself of the can-do attitude that SEALs were famous for embodying._ Positive thinking breeds positive actions._

"Mongoose; Alpha One. Update location, over." Meretti whispered into his throat microphone.

"Alpha One; Mongoose. Twenty paces due east of southwest tent, over." Roberts whispered.

"Mongoose; Alpha One copies, over." Meretti replied. "Still can't see you."

"Affirmative, Alpha One." Roberts replied. "Exactly how I want it to be, over."

Meretti smiled at the comment. "Ten-four."

Taking Roberts at his word, Meretti raised his binoculars and surveyed the general area around the southwest tent. Two marines were lazily walking around it and Meretti could only guess where Roberts was in relation to them. Roberts however was sharply aware of their presence and could see them walking lazily around him. He lay flat on the ground, taking an occasional glimpse to mark the position of the guards. But as they neared him, Roberts pushed his grease paint face into the dirt leaving just enough room for him to breath.

"Eurus this is Mongoose, they are right on top of me, over." Roberts said. "Advise movement when clear."

As the sailor acknowledged his teammate's transmission, Meretti nearly cursed in response. Things were getting too close for comfort. But once again, the JG reminded himself that Roberts was sure of what he was doing and quickly got back to observing other areas of the outpost.

Roberts patiently waited for the nearby marines to pass by him. The clarity with which he heard was amazing. Every blade of grass that crunched beneath their footsteps reverberated like a cymbal crash. Eventually, the crashing cymbals became whispering brushes as the guards moved on. When Roberts believed the guards were a safe distance away, he cautiously brought his head up. His intuition was soon validated when the sailor, call sign Eurus, announced that it was now safe to move. After taking a few moments to take in the surroundings of the southwest tent, Roberts crawled forward, quickly, stopping just five feet short of the tents edge.

"Mongoose; Alpha One. We have you, over." Meretti whispered.

"Affirmative Alpha One. Provide threat assessment of southwest tent, over."

Meretti raised his binoculars yet again trying to look into the small openings of the tent. He saw only a man's arm, which moved back and forth suggesting that he was speaking to someone.

"Mongoose; Alpha One. I only count one hostile in tent, with a possible second."

"Say again?" Roberts asked.

"I say again, one confirmed hostile possibly speaking to possible hostile in southwest tent, over."

"Mongoose acknowledges." Roberts replied. "Please announce when clear, over."

"Alpha One acknowledges. Will advise over."

Bringing his binoculars down Meretti took a look at his watch. _Damn, three hours_. That was how long he and his men had been in the jungle. The temperature was rising and he could only imagine how hot Roberts was feeling. Being out in the middle of a jungle clearing with the sun beating down on you could not have been enjoyable, especially when wearing a hot and heavy ghillie suit.

"Mongoose; Alpha Two." One of Meretti's men began. "Hostile is leaving southwest tent, I say again, hostile leaving southwest tent."

"Alpha Two; I have him, over." Roberts replied calmly. "Any more word on that _possible_ hostile?"

"Mongoose; Alpha Two, no sign of possible hostile. Looks like it was a fluke, over."

"Copy that, Alpha Two." Roberts replied. "Request status on the other guards, over."

"Four hostiles near the humvee. Two still patrolling the periphery, and the remaining three are guarding the Northern, Eastern, and Western tents. But southwest tent seems to be clear, over."

"Copy that Alpha Two." Roberts replied. "Alpha One, request instructions, over."

Thinking about his next move, Meretti decided to ask for some advice.

"Any of you gentlemen got ideas?" Meretti asked, looking through some binoculars.

"Could create some distractions, but its risky." A sailor replied.

"Sometimes you gotta take risks, petty officer. You mind elaborating."

"Move some bushes around, then dart away." The young sailor replied. "Those marines come looking around, thus leaving their post. Only drawback is that if we try and move we may get caught and be forced to shoot back."

Meretti sighed. "You're right, it does sound risky."

"So whadaya wanna do?" The sailor asked.

"I'm gonna take a chance." Meretti replied. "Tell you what. We wait for those two centuries to get to the far west part of the outpost. Our team, Eurus, Zephyrus, Notus, and Boreas will start moving bushes around. Those marines start moving and move out to five different spots at once. Now the only problem with that is the possibility of the marines not buying it. Those two patrolling centuries and the guys gathered around the humvee may go looking, but they may leave those guards at the North, West, and Southern tents."

"What about the southwest tent?" A sailor asked. "You think the item we're looking for is in there?"

"Its possible, but it just seems too easy. I don't trust it." Meretti replied.

"Fair, enough." The sailor confirmed. "So, when do we get this show on the road."

"Alrighty." Meretti replied reaching for his radio. "This is Alpha one. In a few moments we're gonna try something that sounds awfully risky. Mongoose, all of us are gonna try and give you some help so listen up. Eurus, Notus, Zephyrus and Boreas as well as Alpha will start shaking bushes to lure the marines away from their posts. We will then move once they head in our direction and hide a few meters away. I know it's a stretch but I'm counting on these ghillies keeping us hidden well enough. Mongoose, while all this is happening, it will be your duty to check out every tent while the marines are distracted. I'm not sure of how many will be lured away, but we'll try our best to remove as many as possible. Everyone good with this"

"Alpha one, this Eurus. Sounds doable to me."

"Alpha one; Notus. No complaints on this end. Let's just do the deed and get out."

"Alpha one; Zephyrus. Let's do the damn thing."

"Alpha one; Boreas. Same as above."

Meretti smiled at that. "Read you loud and clear Boreas. Mongoose?"

"Just give me a hint when you guys are starting so I can be ready to make my move. And what about this southwest tent, over." Roberts replied.

"Mongoose; Alpha one. Disregard southwest tent for the moment. I'm taking a chance that what we're looking for is _not_ there. We're probably only going to get one shot at this I want to make this as easy as possible. The Northern, Southern and Eastern tents are relatively close to each other, meaning less ground to cover. Understood?"

"Mongoose, copies. Ready and waiting."

"Alpha one, copies. Give us a few."

Meretti turned to the men right next to him. "You boys ready?"

They simply nodded.

"Alright." Meretti replied. "Time to check with the others. Eurus, Notus, Zephyrus,, Boreas, this is Alpha one. You boys set?"

"Alpha one; Eurus. Ready and waiting."

"Alpha one; Notus. Affirmative."

"Alpha one; Zephyrus. I'm waiting."

"Alpha one; Boreas. Give me the go."

"Element (Whole Team); This is Alpha. Wait for Go, over."

As the others replied, Meretti and three of his men carefully moved behind several bushes. They exchanged looks with each other, before nodding to acknowledge they were ready to go. Satisfied with what he saw, Meretti gave the order to proceed.

"Element! Alpha one! We are go! I say again, we are go!" Meretti hissed into his throat microphone.

At first the attempted distraction seemed rather fruitless. A few minutes went by as nothing happened. Meretti was beginning to doubt the success of his plan, but not before Roberts got on the radio.

"Element; Mongoose. The two roving guards are moving towards Eurus. Waiting for order to move out, over."

Soon enough, everyone began calling in guard movements to their locations. Things were finally starting to fall in place. Now all Meretti had to do was get a headcount of how many marines had left their posts.

"Element! Give me numbers!" Meretti asked.

"Eurus, two."

"Boreas, one."

"Zephyrus, two."

"Notus, one."

"Three on us, sir!" One sailor on Alpha announced.

_Just what I wanted_. "Mongoose, Alpha one. All nine hostiles accounted for. Start searching, over." He said as he slowly lead his team back into the jungle.

"Roger that." Roberts replied.

Quickly taking a moment to scan the horizon for any threats, Roberts hopped up and began moving. His heart began to beat rapidly as he made a dash for the western tent first. Bursting through the opening he scanned rapidly back and forth for a paper that had "take me" printed in big black letters on it. Finding neither a soul nor the paper Roberts dashed out the other tent towards the northern one. This time, he found exactly what he was looking for. Just as he was about to believe his earpiece gave off a haunting message.

"Mongoose! Alpha, one hostile unaccounted for! Headed right for your tent." Meretti notified.

Roberts nearly jumped, but maintained his cool. He took a chance and hid in a dark corner of the tent, behind a few boxes. Holding his breath, the sniper struggled to hold his breath and keep still. The marine looked in for a second, scanning from left to right but saw nothing. Content with what he saw, the marine motioned away. But Roberts listened intently for his footsteps to fade away. Once the marine got a good distance away, Roberts tip-toed to the edge of the tent's opening, took a quick look around for any threats especially the one that was unaccounted for._ Taking a piss_. Roberts suppressed a laugh and made way for the tall grass around the outpost's periphery. Taking one last look around he disappeared into the vegetation.

Meanwhile, Meretti and the men of Alpha were neck and neck with the marines. Apparently, these marines were not going to give up that easily and were being annoying persistent on finding the source of the disturbance. Meretti could hear their frustrated breathing, which ironically enough was a good sign. Because despite the thoroughness of the marines' search, they were not going to be looking around for more than five minutes while their posts were left unattended. They were clearly angry that whatever had caused those bushes to shake had clearly gotten away from them.

"Think it was them?" A marine asked.

"Who the hell is _them_?" Another retorted poking his rifle into some bushes. "If it was the SEALs, I don't fuckin' see 'em!"

"No need to curse Mike." Someone else said, moving his boot right over Meretti's head.

"I just want to show these squids that they ain't as good as they think they are." The angry marine said, stomping his boot between the narrow space between Meretti's left forearm and head.

"Well, obviously they're not here fellas. Besides, we've been away from our posts for almost five minutes. Don't think Zoeller can maintain that post all by himself." One of the marines advised.

"Yeah, if the dumbass isn't taking a piss." The angry marine fumed as he moved away from Meretti and his team.

"Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning." A marine joked.

"Can it, Corporal!"

When the marines had moved a safe distance away from Meretti's position he raised his head, exhaling a deep sigh of relief that no one had tripped over his body.

"Looks like these new ghillie suits do the job pretty well, sir." One of the SEAL's grinned.

"At least our friend Mike wasn't about to trip over your ass." Meretti replied a little nervously. "You were the lucky one."

"I was hoping he wouldn't. As much as he was flying off at the mouth."

"You and me both." Meretti smiled. "Time to check on Roberts. Hope he made it out of that tent, didn't hear a reply.

About fifty yards away, Roberts seemed to preempt his commander's thoughts. "Alpha One; Mongoose, package is secure. Moving to link with Notus, over."

"Alpha one copies." Meretti stated. "How our other boys doing, Alpha?"

"One… two, six, eight… nine." A sailor counted. "Yup, all clear."

"Excellent." Meretti sighed. "Notus; Alpha One; Mongoose is headed your way."

"Copy that Alpha one. I have him."

Meretti then turned to the men of Alpha. "You boys ready to get out of this mess?"

"Born ready, sir." A sailor summed it up for everyone else.

"Rog-e-o." Meretti replied. "Element; Alpha One; meet at rendezvous Zulu, over."

The rest of his team acknowledged the order. Another mission in the books, Meretti lead his team into the sanctity of the jungle, vanishing without a trace. Just as he turned around he heard a loud obscenity resound from the outpost. Startled and thinking it was Roberts, Meretti turned around.

"Alpha one; Mongoose." Roberts was laughing. "Status is uncompromised. Seems like our friends just realized we stole something."

"Don't stick around to found out sailor." Meretti smirked. "Get your ass outta there."

"Gladly."

--

Families were impermanent, fleeting gifts that never seemed to last. He had lost three within the span of five years. The first were his wife and son, lost to a failure. Then, he watched with helpless agony as his fraternity of warriors was hacked apart by war's swinging axe. But his third loss was his country, his home; cut in two by poverty's hungry sword and raped by the hands of man's unbridled ambition. Now he found himself attached to a forth family, a family he was determined to hold on to.

This family was an unlikely bunch, a band of former enemies who realized that their biggest threat was no longer each other, but rather men who had taken their beloved homeland hostage. This was the common cause that united so many men and women who once shared an unquenchable hatred for one another. And their situation was more than an enemy of my enemy is my friend. They were men and women who hailed from all walks of life, rich, poor, loyalist, rebel, young, old, soldier, civilian. Different in lifestyle but similar in spirit, they willfully took upon the charge of taking back the country that was stolen from them.

But he wished that this family never was. He wished this family never had a reason to exist. For if they never existed, then this nightmare he had know for the last five years would not have existed either. The pain of nostalgia cut deep through his soul and the shame of it all was unbearable. He remembered a Brazil of peace, a country he was proud to be a part of. But the nation's burgeoning poverty wounds were soon to destroy the peace and solace that he believed, truly defined his sovereign homeland. That was what brought upon his shame; the fact that he defended the very people—who through their incompetence in address the problem of poverty—hurt his fellow countrymen.

His patriotism was taken advantage of to fulfill _their_ insatiable aspirations. His men and his mind were manipulated all for the sake of covering up _their _wrongs. He always thought of himself as a shrewd man and yet he was fooled. They told him to regard the rebels as his enemies and to see them as threats to Brazil's sovereignty. And he believed them, relying on what he thought was patriotism. But in retrospect he now knew it was rage. And it was just that kind of rage that had led to the death of his wife and son, not by him, but by another group of loyalist soldiers who thought they were protecting their country. He never heard the story of what really happened and never would, considering that those who really knew the truth were now dead and gone. Some secrets were just better left being secrets, for a part of him really didn't want to find out what happened to his wife and son. After all, he had failed them enough by not being there to protect. Would they have forgiven him? He would never know.

When the war had ended and both sides had exhausted all their resources, Alexandre vowed never to don a military uniform again. He no longer viewed his past as a _Parequedista_ with pride. Such a past only reminded him of how his country had torn itself apart and how he had only served to augment that schism. A day after a ceasefire had been signed by rebel and loyalist commanders, Alexandre burned his uniform, the rising flames becoming a symbolic gesture of penance, penance for all the sins of battle he so grievously committed. Cleansed of sin he turned to the peace of farming, growing life as opposed to taking it.

But this little moment of solace was never meant to last. He remembered how they created the Reconciliatory Development Program—commonly known as the RDP—an initiative designed to both rebuild the Brazilian economy and rekindle a national sense of unity through cooperative efforts. After, the RDP was what enabled Alexandre to walk away from the battlefield and enjoy a calm and uneventful life as a farmer. The former soldier actually felt indebted to them for the display of benevolence. But behind this guise of charity lurked a specter of the past, one that Alexandre believed he had vanquished once and for all.

Using deception, they cleverly took control of his country. Little by little, they moved resources into place, right under the noses of appointed United Nations Reconstruction Administrators (UNRAs). Alexandre often blamed himself for not recognizing the signs sooner. If he did, then maybe this barreling military machine would have come to a grinding halt. But Alexandre knew that was unrealistic. Even he did manage to warn his countrymen, what difference would it make? By the time he finally realized what was the group of mercenaries was up to, they had already put their sinister plan into motion.

Taking over the media was the first step. Almost overnight they took over all the radio and television networks, even blocking Internet access outside of the country. Even the outside reporters were expelled, the purported reason being that they were _meddling in company affairs_. But what angered Alexandre the most were the lies they began to spread. The foreign soldiers spoke of peace, but showed a totally different side in their actions. They told people they were here to bring order back to his country, which was something Alexandre believed had already been reached. All hostilities had subsided after the war and he could genuinely say he no longer had enemies. He worked with several men who had claimed the rebel cause just five years before the armistice. Bringing peace to a nation who already made peace with itself just did not make sense. Alexandre was beginning to connect the dots.

When the foreign organization started detaining thousands of Brazilian men for no apparent reason, Alexandre knew something was in the works. But neither he nor anyone else could explain what happening. When confronting the soldiers, people demanded an explanation. What they got instead was an excuse. The arrests were explained as a measure to identify potential and accused saboteurs. And yet again, things were not matching up. Not one Brazilian citizen, anywhere in the country had ever called anyone a potential saboteur. Alexandre and many others knew it was empty rhetoric. But there was nothing they could do to stop. However, all that was about to change.

During a visit to Brasilia, Alexandre finally began to get an understanding of the bigger picture. He learned that even more innocent people were being detained and that the UNRAs had all been expelled. There were even rumors abounding that these supposed peacemakers had killed a group of young men indiscriminately. Alexandre however was not a man who jumped to conclusions. But a calm evening in Brasilia would eventually flesh the truth out.

As he took a stroll across Brasilia, reminiscing about better days, when his country was not at war, Alexandre stumbled upon something that would thrust him into the jaws of war yet again. There was a small clearing across from a market, surrounded a couple of dilapidated warehouses a short distance away. Deciding to head back to see a friend, Alexandre took the small clearing as a shortcut. Suddenly, he was startled by the sight of a young teenager being gunned down in an alley a few yards from where Alexandre stood. Not wanting to be yet another victim, the former soldier hid alongside a wall, next to the alley. A part of him was saying to walk away and act like this thing had never happened. No one would have missed the death of a young kid anyway. But something inside him forced him to take a look.

Just as he was about to turn his head down the alley, Alexandre heard quick footsteps. They were laughing as if they had just slaughtered a helpless bird. Risking being spotted he peeked around the corner and saw two mercenaries standing over the bleeding body. The boy was not quite dead. A few desperate coughs escaped his lungs, as blood continued to gurgle from his mouth. It was a sickening sight as the soldiers simply watched the poor child die. Anger soon began to course through Alexandre's veins, bringing out the soldier he had left behind years before. But they were two very large men and though Alexandre was in quite good shape, he was still much older than these two. He decided to wait until one of them was turned around to strike.

Taking another look down the alley he noticed that one of the soldiers was walking away, his back turned towards his fellow mercenary. Desperately, he searched for a tool that would teach this animal a lesson. A shard of glass lay between his feet. Feeling nothing but rage, he grabbed the sharp object and quietly moved towards the soldier who now had his back turned and attention directed towards the other end of the alley. Crouching and darting behind crates and other junk, he stealthily got within three feet of the mercenary. Taking one last look at the piece of glass, Alexandre guessed that he could die in the next few moments. But when he saw the image of that boy falling to the ground, Alexandre could only focusing on one thing. Making this arrogant ass pay for his mistake. Taking a deep breath he jabbed the sharp end into the base of the man's next sending him into a world of pain. The man let out an awkward scream and fired his rifle towards the ground. That was when three men looked right at him, more surprised than angry. But when they saw their comrade lying lifeless on the ground, right at Alexandre's feet, they brought their rifles to ready and fired. Surviving the first salvo of bullets, the former soldier broke into a run, wishing he had his trusty FN-FAL to fight back.

They mercenaries pursued him through an endless array of alleys and warehouses, shouting and shooting as they went. After only a few minutes of intense running, Alexandre began to feel his legs burn, a sign that he was no longer the young paratrooper he once was. It would have taken a miracle to get away from those enraged mercenaries. As he turned another corner, it suddenly occurred to him that no miracle would be able to save him now. With no way out, he stopped running and let a calm resolve of acceptance wash over him. Patiently, he waited for his executioners to arrive, assured that they would kill him on sight. An eternal thirty seconds passed after which Alexandre finally found himself face to face with these fuming souls. Slowly, they brought their rifles to a firing position and smiled darkly just before they crumpled to the ground. Several masked gunmen appeared on the rooftops, shouting in Portuguese as they cut down the three mercenaries with gunfire. Then more masked gunmen appeared and beckoned for him to follow. Grateful for what they did, he followed them to a sewer, disappearing just as more mercenaries were beginning to appear.

When things began to clear up, Alexandre and his unlikely rescuers made their way through a subterranean maze that ended at a large steel door. Upon opening the door, the sight of more than a hundred armed men and women greeted him, all ready to fight and die for their country. Alexandre felt proud and yet humbled by what he saw. They all seemed highly organized, shuffling to and fro. But before Alexandre could get lost in the moment, one of the gunmen, his masked removed led him to a table surrounded by several men and a young woman.

"Colonel, so strange not so see you in a uniform." The young woman said not looking up from the map.

The woman was quite young as a matter of fact, much too young to be a commander of some sort. She had black hair, olive skin, and a beautifully angular face that emphasized her youth. A pair of combat fatigues, maroon beret, and a drab gray shirt served as her uniform.

"How do you know who I am?" Alexandre asked a bit bewildered.

"I think the question is, do you know who I am?" The young woman asked looking up. Then Alexandre suddenly remembered. She was a target during the civil war, known for organizing attacks against the military. At first he felt rage, as he was certain that this woman was responsible for the deaths of many a brave soldier. Quixada was her only alias and here he was looking at her in the flesh. A part of him wanted to kill her, but he knew if it was not for the men she commanded, he would have been dead a few moments ago.

"Yes," Alexandre replied. "Now that you mention it, I do."

"Good." Quixada smiled quickly. "Now back to your question Colonel, about how we know who you are. You were a platoon commander stationed near Rio during the war. A Colonel in the Brigada Infantaria Paraquedista, am I correct?"

"I understand but I… I was only a Colonel."

"Only a colonel." Quixada laughed. "You were our worst enemy, the one man who made it difficult for us to fight our battles. It was your command that nearly brought us to our knees I dare say. You built quite a reputation for yourself."

"As did you." Alexandre smiled.

"No, colonel," Quixada looked back at the map upon the table. "I was simply a motivator. I knew nothing of combat at that time."

"Then why do you carry a side-arm?"

"It doesn't always take a rocket scientist to fire a gun Colonel Alexandre." Quixada said quite curtly. "How do you think we were able to fair so well? This enemy is not as invincible as you may think."

"So how do you plan on defeating them?" Alexandre asked rather crossly. "They will find you eventually."

"I recognize this and that is why I am asking you to join this fight, Colonel. We need someone of your military expertise to guide us, to sharpen are frayed edges if you will."

Alexandre was taken aback by the sudden request.

"I burned my uniform and threw away my rifle after the war, Quixada." Alexandre explained. "I left the battlefield for good when the war ended."

"Do you honestly believe _they_ will allow such a fantasy to last, Colonel?" She asked him. "Because as one of my just enlightened to me, you almost became another one of their victims."

"That was because I killed one of their own."

"And why did you kill that soldier?"

"He killed a boy. I could not let him get away with that."

"Well if you want to see more of that, then you can leave." Quixada sighed. "For I can assure you colonel, that what you saw was only the beginning. These men will only continue to get more vicious and it will only be a matter of time before they let loose the dogs of war. You can walk out of that door and return to your life. But remember Colonel, you fought for this country just like I did. Different causes but the end goal was the same. You still want to save this country as much as I do. But please go if I am wasting your time, Colonel Alexandre. I don't want to keep you waiting for whatever else you find more important than fighting for your country. A brave soldier? Sure."

As Quixada began to walk away, Alexandre began to ponder her words. Here she was giving him the ugly truth, telling him about patriotism and bravery. He felt as if the situation should have been reversed with _him_ being the one to tell other people to fight back. Alexandre was still however, reluctant to take up arms yet again. Not that he was afraid to die in battle; he just no longer wanted to see more of his fellow countrymen and women die. He no longer wanted to be responsible for the lives of others. All he wanted was peace and serenity. But deep down inside he knew all of that was wishful thinking. Quixada was right, the days ahead would only get darker. Alexandre knew he had to do something.

"Okay, I understand." Alexandre nearly yelled, quite tacitly. "I will join your ranks and help guide you during the dark times ahead."

"So, the soldier finally decides to put on the uniform yet again." Quixada said. "Well, lets not wait any longer. Raul, Tomas, meet with Colonel Alexandre and tell him what we are planning. Get him a uniform and a rifle, it seems like he may have forgotten to shoot when he became a farmer."

With those closing words, Alexandre became a military commander yet again. It may have been on a different side, but that was beside the point. Alexandre made a decision to fight for his country not because he was forced to, but because he wanted to. Peace may have been awfully elusive over the last few years, but Alexandre would fight for it, regardless of the consequences.

Being a resistance commander for the last two years had taught him much about patriotism. It taught him that you did not have to wear a military uniform to be a patriot. The only thing necessary to be a patriot was a love of country and that was something anyone could understand.

Even though those momentous events happened more than two years ago, Alexandre still remembered them quite vividly. He even thought back to the boy that died that fateful day, the boy he could not save. But as looked over the operational plan in front of him, just another one of many he had masterminded before, he knew that he had more than made up for the young man's death. Every operation he was planned was for that young man and the thousands of other brave Brazilians who died in the fight against this enemy. Despite its obvious strength and tenacity, Alexandre was certain that a major change would come eventually.

Watching a number of fellow freedom fighters head out of into the maze of sewers, he could not help but see himself amongst them. These were brave young men, embarking on a journey to save their country. They were true patriots just as he was when he was their age. The only difference between Alexandre and those men was that _they _were truly fighting for their country, not a government who did nothing. Alexandre felt ashamed that he fought for government instead of country. But through his efforts as a resistance commander he had long ago redeemed himself._ Now, time to destroy yet another weapons convoy_.


End file.
